


As Seasons Pass

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hospitals, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Injuries, Nightmares, Post-Season/Series 13, Recuperation, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7639144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection consisting of a missing Grimmons-moment from each season.<br/>And an epilogue where Kai learns the various ways a person can open themselves up.</p><p>In which:<br/>Grif claims he’s a hero and Simmons won’t agree – They both have a hard time looking in the mirror – They stay in the shade for two hours – Simmons can’t breathe and Grif doesn’t help – Kai has it hot and lets them know it – Simmons is sleeping and Grif is not – They start an argument and won’t agree to regret it – Simmons feels guilty and Grif hates cliffhangers – They think the Blues suck – They both have shitty parents – Simmons has phantom pains and that’s Grif’s fault – Grif is orange and Simmons says he isn’t –They both break a promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chicks in Black and Knights in Greasy Armor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emblem_oracle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emblem_oracle/gifts).



> For my special friend. NJ, this is how it goes. 13 seasons, 13 chapters. I’m filled with creativity and all chapters have been planned. Let’s see if I can write them all before you manage to watch the entire series. The race is on. I put my money on myself. You have to earn this gift, NJ :P Better start watching now!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Suck it up, Simmons,” Grif muttered, not exactly kindly. He placed a foot on the helmet he had thrown on the ground as if to keep it there. “I need a smoke today. ‘sides, these are my lungs. Worry about your own.”  
> “I am!” Simmons threw out his arms in frustration. “I am the victim of passive smoking!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set between episode 15 and 16.

“Hey, do you think Donut is alright?”

Grif pulled his face away from the sniper rifle to stare at his fellow Red soldier. They were both standing on the top of the base, carefully keeping an eye on the Blues in the distance, while Sarge was resting downstairs. He had let Simmons stitch up the wound on his face, all while bragging about his amount of scars, before insulting Grif one last time and marching into his private quarters.

 Judging by the sound of snoring coming from below them, so loud that they could almost feel the ground shake from tremors, Grif believed his Sergeant was just sleeping off the stress from the day’s events. Grif would probably have done the same, had he not been ordered to guard their home. Normally he would have taken pride in ignoring commands, but today was… ‘special’ could barely describe it.

“Donut’s fine.” Grif shrugged at his friend’s worry. “If you want to be worried, worry about us.”

“ _U-us_?” Simmons stuttered. Grif watched how his grip on his rifle tightened. He should have known that the maroon soldier was just as tense as he felt himself, and now it seemed he had accidently almost triggered a panic attack. Simmons was staring straight at him and shrieked with a voice a pitch higher than normal: “Why should we be worried?!”

“First of all, if you go any louder, you’ll wake up Sarge, and I prefer the peace and quiet over a grumpy, vengeful Sarge. Secondly, Donut is far away from here. On the other hand, Blue Base is right over here, and that means that black armored chick could come back. And that’s a whole other way to ruin the peace and quiet. I really don’t need another beating, not from her or Sarge!”

Simmons seemed to have relaxed slightly, now when he knew that Grif’s warning was old news. “But that probably won’t happen, right?”

The situation had taken its toll on Grif as well, but it was clearly obvious that he would not get his reassurance from Simmons. “I don’t know,” he said, and tried to keep his tone light. “I’m not really counting on you to protect my hide. Can’t really see you standing up to the black bitch, or, even more shocking, Sarge. How’s the back of your head by the way?”

“It’s fine,” Simmons answered briefly, but raised his hand to rub his helmet, as if he could soothe the skin beneath it. “It’s Sarge who got shot.”

“Yeah, and you got knocked out. At least this time you didn’t faint. I don’t know how much more your poor dignity can take.”

Simmons looked like he was about to place his hands on his hips – the perfect position to scold someone – but was too reluctant to let go of this rifle. “I didn’t faint!”

Grif tsk-ed loudly. “You can’t lie to me, Simmons. I was there.” 

“You were unconscious, you asshole! You didn’t see shit!”

“Excuse me!” Now it was Grif’s turn to look offended. “I was heroically protecting your sorry ass from the chick! Must have been the first time you needed help to get the girls away from you!”

“Oh, shut up!” Simmons snorted, but Grif was glad to see that the maroon soldier had visibly relaxed. If he had continued being that tense, Grif feared he might have shot him by accident. “Last thing I heard was you screaming ‘ _Don’t kill me_ ’!”

“Last thing you heard before you fainted,” Grif corrected him with a smug smile beneath his helmet. “Otherwise you would have known that I also screamed I was too good-looking to die, which we all know is true.” The orange soldier seemed to realize his last comment had not exactly strengthened his argument, and quickly added: “And then I fought her off until I finally succumbed to my wounds.”

“Which wounds? You took a hit to the head and fell like the sack of garbage Sarge believes you are. The only way you could have scared her off was if you had started to snore.”

“Hey, I’m still the hero in this story! Donut’s head exploded, Sarge was shot, you got knocked out, and who saved you? That’s right – I did!” Grif finished proudly with a thumb pointing at his own chest. It still amazed him, but somehow he was the one who had gotten his ass the least kicked. Of course he had not counted Lopez, but if a guy was as quiet as him, it would mean he did not want to be included in anything, not even the list of heroes.

“Some hero you are,” Simmons spat slowly. “The knight is supposed to arrive in shining armor – not a greasy one like yours, fatass.” He reached forward to point at a brown sticky spot on Grif’s chest plague that had been a thorn in his eye for the last couple of days. “I bet you haven’t even noticed that gravy stain.”

If he had tried to offend his fellow soldier, he failed dearly. Instead, Grif recognized a challenge when he heard one, and with a sly smile, he slowly took off his helmet. “That’s not gravy.”

“Grif, you dumbass, keep your helmet on!” Simmons clutched his rifle tightly again. “What if the Blues’ chick returns?”

“Then I ask her to wait while I put it on again! Geez, Simmons, it’s not like you aren’t keeping watch!”

“You can’t just count on me to protect you, just because you are too lazy to – Grif? Oh no, you fucking don’t!”

Grif had run a finger through the sticky stain, and while purposefully keeping his eyes on Simmons the entire time, he slowly licked it off his gauntlet. “Just what I thought! This is the remains of yesterday’s breakfast. No need to let a good Oreo go to waste.”

“You’re fucking disgusting.” Simmons sighed while carefully watching the Blue Base. Two of their comrades had almost died today, and Simmons would appreciate if that number did not rise. “Can you put your helmet back on now?”

“Nope,” Grif replied flatly and pulled a pack of cigarettes out from who-knows-where.

Simmons stared at him through his visor while he lit up his smoke. “You’re going to die early in this war,” he told his friend distastefully, and then his eyes flickered back to the Blue Base.

“Sarge tells me that every day. Pretty sure it’ll be him and not the Blues that will do me in.”

Simmons waved away the smoke that Grif blew in his direction. “Or those cigarettes. Do you even know how high your chances of getting lung cancer are?”

Grif rolled his eyes as he inhaled again. “Do you know how high our chances of getting a bullet through our heads are?” he asked sarcastically as he kept smoking.

“A lot higher when you’re not wearing a helmet,” Simmons pointed out as he brushed away the ash that Grif had let fall to the ground.

“Suck it up, Simmons,” Grif muttered, not exactly kindly. He placed a foot on the helmet he had thrown on the ground as if to keep it there. “I need a smoke today. ‘sides, these are my lungs. Worry about your own.”

“I am!” Simmons threw out his arms in frustration. “I am the victim of passive smoking!”

“Cry me a river.” Grif paused with an emotionless expression before leaning forward and blew out the smoke on Simmons’ visor.

The maroon soldier stomped a foot. “When your lungs give up, I’ll be at your hospital bed saying ‘ _I told you so_ ’!”

Grif shrugged. “Write it on my tombstone. See if I fucking care.” He took his cigarette between two fingers and waved it threateningly at Simmons. “Let me tell you something, Simmons. Our _real_ chances are that we won’t even live long enough for cancer to finish us off. So I say fuck it and I smoke. Got a problem with that?”

Simmons looked like he was about to argue, with his hands raised to create gestures, but then he seemed to slump forward. “Do you really think so?”

The anger was gone from his voice and Grif could not help but feel a little bit guilty. This argument had only led them back to where they had started. He exhaled before saying: “I don’t know. I mean, this war with the Blues is fucking useless, but that black bitch kinda changed the rules, I guess. She’s worse than their fucking tank.”

They then sighed in unison, Simmons with a rifle in his hands and Grif with a lit cigarette.

“I wonder when Donut will be back,” Simmons asked out loud.

“I wonder how he’ll look. That spider got him real bad.”

“It wasn’t a spider, you dumbass. It was a grenade!”

“No shit, Simmons! I figured that out when it exploded!”

“He can’t look worse than you,” Simmons then snorted as an insult.

Grif ran a hand over the tan skin on his face and continued until it went through his messy black hair. He frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with my face, jackass!”

“Sarge says every real soldier should wear battlescars on his face, otherwise he can’t stand looking t them. Why else do you think he prefers we keep our helmets on indoors?”

“Fuck that! I’m not even a real soldier – I’m a fucking draftee! And like I’d ever let a Blue mess up my face. Even that black bitch knew to let this beauty live on.”

“Yeah, like you’ll keep being this lucky… HOLY FUCK! SHE’S BACK!”

With a squeak, Grif dropped his cigarette and scrambled towards his helmet. He tripped over himself, landing heavily on his palms and knees, but quickly reached out to pull the helmet over his head. Then everything went black and Grif wondered just how quickly the chick could knock someone out. But even though he could not see, he could hear, and in his ears was the suspicious sound of laughter.

A few feet next to him, Simmons was doubled over as he tried to keep it back. In his hurry, Grif had managed to put his helmet on backwards, and Simmons was enjoying the sight way too much.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” Grif asked him when he had put his armor on correctly. Simmons lifted a hand as if he could wipe the tears away from his eyes. “She’s not here, you dumbass.”

“No shit. You haven’t fainted yet.” With his vision finally restored, Grif looked down to see Simmons planting his heavy boot on the top of the barely lit cigarette that Grif had dropped in his panic. To make sure all that was left was smudge, Simmons rubbed his heel on it.

Grif’s helmet tilted upwards in what Simmons guessed was a dark stare. “Wrong move, Simmons. If I were you, I would sleep with my calculator under my pillow from now on.”

“Threaten me all you want, Grif. We all know you’re too lazy to follow through.”

“You’d be surprised what I can do, Simmons,” Grif told him as he stared at the black smudge that had once been his cigarette. He would have been madder, had it not been for the rest of the package that was safely hidden within his armor. But he could not reveal that to Simmons who seemed way too smug over this one victory.

“Well, apparently you can’t watch your own fucking back. You need me to do that.” Simmons waved his hand to gesture towards the Blue Base. “What would you have done if she had actually attacked us?”

“I would have proven my point right, Simmons,” Grif told him in a tone that was not heavily irritated. It loosened the tension in the air. “A bullet will kill me faster than lung cancer.”

“You don’t have to be a doctor to know that, Grif.” Simmons hesitated but then quickly added: “But I don’t think we’re going to die. I mean, we’re all going to die. Eventually. You know. But not in the war. Not this one.”

A day ago, Grif would have agreed without hesitation. But during the last 24 hours, he had seen half of Donut’s face explode and then Sarge had dropped to the ground with a bullet-hole in his helmet. Grif still remember how has heart had pounded against his chest and his hands had shook from panic when he had reacted on instinct and begun CPR – all caused by this feeling of fear that he had not felt since the day he had been drafted.

Back then the letter had only meant death: he was going into a bloody war and he had no idea of how to survive – how to dodge or shoot or aim or _anything_ – and he was going to fucking die. Then he had arrived in Blood Gulch in the war had been a lot less bloody and a lot more idiotic.

But today had been different, a lot more bloody and dangerous, and now his muscles were sore from being so tense. Glancing at the Blue Base, the usual curiosity had been replaced by a new strange form of wariness.

With both Donut and Sarge recovering from their wounds, Simmons’ statement was a lot more comforting than Grif would like to admit. “What?” he asked jokingly with a smile Simmons could not see. “You think Sarge will lead the Red Army into victory?”

“Well,” Simmons began, drawing out the word. “I don’t think he is going to give up.”

“Always the kissass.” Grif’s eyes trailed away from Simmons to the enemies’ Base in the distance. The strange worry clawed at the bottom of his stomach. “But yeah, I guess we better watch each other’s ass until the chick is gone.”

“I won’t have a problem watching your ass,” Simmons said carelessly. Then he stiffened, as if he realized what he had just said. “It’s not easy to miss, fatass,” the maroon soldier quickly added as an explanation.

Grif tilted his head. “And I’ll watch yours – FUCK, SHE’S HERE!”

Simmons shrieked and almost dropped his rifle when he spun around to face the enemy. He had his finger on the trigger, ready to shoot, when he realized that Grif had copied his trick and no one was there. With a scowl, he turned around to scold his friend–

-only to see that Grif had taken off his helmet again and a lit cigarette was stuck between his two lips that were turned upwards in a smug smile.

“GRIF!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suck it cigarette. I love these two idiots. This chapter was written in hand in my loyal notebook on the beach as I have been stuck on an island with no internet for the last week. Next chapter is also written, and should be up tomorrow.


	2. The Stitches Will Snitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He lifted his hands as if he could force the words back in his mouth. “No, I… Fuck. I mean, it’s weird for me. Your face. I mean, my face. Uh, well, half of it. It’s mine. It’s… A bit weird. For me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set some time after episode 34.

“Holy fuck,” Grif muttered when he stood in front of the mirror. He unconsciously let a hand trail down his forehead, following the stiches down where it split his face in half until they ended just below his ear. “Holy fuck,” he said again, more slowly this time as if he was tasting each syllable.

“It’s not that bad.”

Grif spun around, arms wrapped around his torso as if he was shielding a naked body. Which he wasn’t. Simmons knew better than to enter their shared locker room without knocking, and it was surprising that he had entered the room so quietly this time. Both Grif and Simmons were grateful that he was wearing his pants, but Grif still felt like he was revealing too much of himself.

“What the fuck, Simmons?” Grif muttered with his eyes kept on the floor. “And you are berating me for not keeping the private hours.”

“Hey, we both feel weird when Donut walks in on us naked,” Simmons grudgingly muttered. “I don’t need to see his yoga positions with that much detail.”

They both grimaced from the mental picture, but then Grif accidently looked at the mirror and grimaced even more.

“Don’t fucking sugarcoat it, Simmons,” he growled and pointed at the mirror with his finger – his own finger, to be correct, the tan one with the bitten nail. “This is… I can’t even fucking describe!”

“Weird?” Simmons suggested. He was still wearing his maroon armor, but when he glanced at his left gauntlet, they both knew he was thinking of his new metal hand.

Grif closed his mouth, hesitating before he finally agreed. “Yes, Simmons,” he said slowly. “This is fucking weird.” Turning away from the mirror, he faced his friend. As if he knew how worried Simmons’ eyes were beneath the visor, Grif let go of himself and immediately wondered where then to put his hands. His stiches ached slightly when he let his arms drop to hang alongside his torso. “You know none of us should even be alive, right? This shouldn’t be physically possible!”

Simmons let out a small snort. “I _know_. Statistically speaking, counting the severity of your injuries, Sarge’s lack of medical training, and I don’t even want to think of how poor a hygienically environment Red Base was for the surgeries, we should both be happy to be alive.”

Grif looked at his arm, or rather, what was left of it - there where the skin turned red near the big clunky stitches and on the other side of, as if the stitches served as a frontier, pale skin sprinkled with freckles covered the rest of the limb.

“Must have been really bad,” he suddenly muttered. “I mean, I look terrible now, but I can’t imagine how it must have looked like before.”

Grif knew Simmons grimaced under the helmet. The image must still be fresh in his mind. Grif barely remembered anything from the accident, which he should probably count himself lucky for, judging from Donut’s version of how he had looked when they found him. But Grif still remembered how bloody Donut’s and Sarge’s helmets had been from their accident, and those images still showed up in his nightmares, the ones everyone had, time to time.

When he had been stable enough to move around, Grif had seen the remains of his armor. The dried blood had almost made him unsure if the pile of crushed metal truly once had belonged to him – it had taken far too long before he had been able to spot anything orange.

The visor had been cracked, the chest plate dented so badly that Grif once again had wondered how he had survived. The rest of the armor looked just as mistreated, but his left arm had taken the worst hit. Grif had cautiously picked up that piece of the armor, wondering just how heavy the tank had been to be able to crush the metal this flat.

Then Sarge had showed up and told him: “Careful, son. I need your hand in there for my trophy wall. Heh, that thing’s jammed up so good we were able to tear the arm right off ya.”

Then Grif had scrambled to the toilet, and the sound of him throwing up his breakfast had still not been loud enough to drown out Sarge jokingly asking him if _he needed a hand_. That must have been the first time Sarge had ever offered him help, and Grif had felt too sick to answer him.

“Yeah,” Simmons finally breathed out, and Grif suddenly wondered if Simmons had thrown up too when the arm had come off. Grif kind of hoped he had. The orange armored soldier had never thought his own stomach a weak one before. “You’re really lucky you walked out of this in one piece. Eventually, I mean.”

Grif did not feel like he was in one piece. He did not feel _whole_. Instead he felt like someone had cut him open, exposing his warm, working organs before someone had scooped them out with a spoon. They had turned him inside out, twisted his inner parts until they came into light. Then they had filled him up with stuff that was not his, before quickly patching him up with uneven stiches and declaring him whole and new and healthy. That was how Grif felt. The sad thing was that it was not far from the truth.

And it had been Sarge who did this. It was one of the weirdest thoughts in this whole mess of weirdness. Grif normally preferred his Sergeant at a certain distance for safety reasons. It was not surprising that Sarge had cut him open – they all knew that would have happened eventually – but that he had patched him up afterwards was not something he had expected.

“Pretty glad I wasn’t awake,” Grif told his friend, resisting the urge to scratch the itching wound on his chest. “Must have hurt like hell. Sure did afterwards. Plus Donut crying is something I’m happy to miss. That sight is ugly as hell.” He paused, imagining the scene he had been a part of, but not awake to witness. “Sarge must have been laughing his ass off.”

“He actually suggested shooting you in the head. To put you out of your misery.”

“That’s… Almost kind of him.” Grif did not even try to hide the surprised tone in his voice. Of course it had been even more surprising to see that Sarge had actually saved his life, but their Sergeant preferred to refer to the saving of Grif’s life as a mere byproduct of Simmons’ cyborg-surgery.

Simmons nodded. “Donut cried even ore when Sarge agreed to save you. _That_ was ugly.”

“Did you cry, Simmons?” Grif asked, finally cracking a sly smile. “Did Donut lend you a napkin?”

“Shut up, you asshole,” Simmons snapped and carefully avoided answering the question. “You really suck at being grateful.”

“That’s what you get for not watching my back.”

“That’s – I wasn’t even there, numbnuts!” Simmons sputtered.

“Exactly!” Grif gestured towards his sore face. “And look at what happened! We’re freaks! Or _freakier_ –this whole war was a freakshow to begin with, and trust me, I know one when I see one.”

“It’s not that bad…” Simmons began slowly, but his squeaky voice ruined all sort of confidence in that statement. He took a step closer to Grif who still had his back turned to the mirror.

Grif put his hands on his hips and winched from the movement. “Really, Simmons? Take off your helmet, look at this,” he gestured towards his own body, “and let’s see if you don’t grimace.”

Simmons kept his armor on. “No, it’s… Well, it _is_ weird.” Grif could not hide how crestfallen he felt after hearing the truth being spoken by a person that was not himself, and Simmons froze when he saw it. He lifted his hands as if he could force the words back in his mouth. “No, I… _Fuck_. I mean, it’s weird for me. Your face. I mean, _my_ face. Uh, well, half of it. It’s mine. It’s… A bit weird. For me.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess.” Grif’s shoulders looked less tense after Simmons’ explanation. Suddenly he lifted his right hand. “Hey, can you feel this?” The hand turned into a fist that slammed into his left arm, into the skin and flesh that had once belonged to Simmons.

“Grif!” Simmons exclaimed when he saw how his friend grimaced. “Grif, you dumbass!”

“Did it work?” he asked breathlessly, eyes squinting in pain.

“You’re going to burst your stiches,” Simmons scolded him. “And no, phantom pains don’t work that way. Idiot.”

Grif’s expression was pure disappointment. “That sucks. Could have been an awesome way of fucking with you.”

“Is that your retarded way of saying ‘ _thank you, Simmons, for donating your organs and saving my life_ ’?”

With a huff, Grif crossed his arms in defiance. “You’re getting greedy, Simmons.”

“ _Thank you, Simmons, for donating your organs an saving my life_ ,” Simmons repeated slowly with a more stern voice.

That had a staring match for a couple of seconds, which quickly was proven unfair since Simmons’ eyes were hidden behind a visor, before Grif gave up. “Fine,” he muttered grudgingly. “Thank you, Simmons, for donating your stupid organs and saving my life. Geez.”

Simmons nodded in satisfaction, but then froze. “My organs aren’t stupid. They are in better shape than yours were!”

“That’s because mine were crushed by a tank, dumbass.”

“Before that, idiot. Unlike someone, I don’t destroy my body with smoking and stuffing myself with junkfood.”

“And what did that get you, Simmons? That’s right – nothing! You lost your organs anyways!” His shoulder still throbbed from his own punch, and Grif turned away from Simmons to take a look in the mirror. “How much did you fucking give anyways?” he asked after taking in the endless number of stitches that had curled around his body like snakes. In the mirror he could see Simmons take off his helmet.

Half of his face was metal and expressionless, and the other side was frowning. “Not… Not that much. I think. I don’t know. You should probably ask Sarge.”

“I did, and I’m still not sure if a hock is something I once ate on a cheap restaurant in Honolulu!”

The biggest wound was on his torso. The stiches created a grim version of the letter ‘Y’ that was far too big for Grif’s liking. It stretched from his shoulder bones to his navel. Sarge had at least been throughout.

“Well, the lungs are mine. Or, well, yours now. But rightfully mine. The kidney, too. Uhh… Liver?” Simmons pointed at his own torso, still covered by the armor, but they both knew that there was more metal and not flesh underneath it. "It sounds pretty hollow when I knock on it. Or, well, it hums slightly. But Sarge says that’s a good thing.”

“Shit, Simmons.” Grif once again turned away from the mirror to stare wide-eyed at his friend, not even feeling the slightest shameful about his staring. “We’re never getting you through airport security now.”

That earned a snort from the newly made Cyborg. “Yeah, and you said you’ll never let a Blue fuck up your face.”

“Well,” Grif said. “I suck at keeping promises.” The wound on his chest itched. The only reason why he did not scratch was the fear of snapping his stitches and seeing all his insides fall out.

Grif now had one brown eye and one that was green. Simmons had two green eyes, but one of them was not organic, but instead a bright green light that only turned off when Simmons slept. ‘Weird’ described their situation pretty well.

“We’re quite the couple,” Grif suddenly said, his mind wandering back to his time with the circus. “Of freaks.” He wondered if his mother would be proud and if she would let them join her troop. He then decided his mother probably thought him dead.

Simmons nodded very slowly. “Could have been worse.”

“Right,” Grif said, just as hesitant. “You could have been ugly as hell, and I would have been stuck with an ass for a face.”

Simmons rolled his eyes – the left one, the green light, a couple of seconds behind the other – but took it as a somewhat compliment. “ _Or_ we could have died.”

“Yeah, that would have sucked.”

They were quiet for a bit. Grif stared at his stitches and Simmons tried not to stare. Finally, the maroon soldier shifted while looking at the helmet in his hands. “Well, I should probably get a move on. Sarge mentioned something about oiling my gears, and I don’t want Donut to overhear and offer help.”

That was an understandable excuse to leave the room. Grif spoke again. “It doesn’t look that bad. Your face. Could have been worse. Just don’t let it rust.”

Simmons snorted loudly, but not even his metal parts could hide the pride in his expression. “I polish it every evening.”

“Of course you do. Now, go get oiled before you get squeakier than normal.”

Then Grif was left alone with his reflection. Running a hand down his torso, he imagined how strange it must be to feel metal instead of skin, even if that skin was not his own. Letting his finger follow the trail of stitches, he wondered if he should feel anything different now with Simmons’ lungs breathing for him, Simmons’ liver dealing with the alcohol for him, Simmons’ kidney doing whatever a kidney did for him.

For a moment he wondered if it was Simmons’ heart beating for him, but he would not ask because that would be weird. Or, well, weirder – the whole situation was weird. He did not know, but feeling how the wound itched and ached, it had to be deep, and it was possible…

But those were things that Donut would love to blabber about – strange things about feelings and what a heart meant and all sort of things that Grif was not supposed to think about. He suddenly felt the urge to cover up the stitches. He could not hide the pale skin, of course, but he had to bandage the wounds to keep them from getting infected and Simmons would scold him.

Grif picked up his roll of bandages that were lying on a bench next to the mirror. But Simmons’ fingers were slim and strange to him, and he accidently dropped the scroll that bounced a couple of times before lying still on the ground. With all his limbs, both the original ones and the donated, aching in protest, Grif leaned down to pick it up, and for a moment he feared that the stitches would snap, but a fear much greater filled him when a voice called out:

“Ooh, are we doing yoga again?!”

“Go away, Donut!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit more angsty this time. It will change from each chapter – going from angst to fluff. Also, there has been a lot of dialogue so far. In fact, this is almost a competition of seeing how much the idiots can talk about nothing, but in the later chapters there will be a bit more action. I’m especially looking forward to chapter 11 and 13. All the chapters have been planned, but I have no more written. Therefore, it might take some time before my next update.


	3. Future Me Has Not Improved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif now positioned himself with his hands behind his head to support it. He looked way too relaxed when the truth was they were in deep trouble.  
> Simmons was having none of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in episode 46.

“This is your fault!” Simmons shrieked after he kicked the warthog’s wheel. “I told you it was a bad idea!”

“So since when did we stop doing things just because they were bad ideas? Don’t you always tell me to listen to Sarge?” Grif asked him. He was sitting on the hood of the jeep, watching Simmons who had now begun to pace back and forth. “’sides, I don’t think offering to hold the ‘ _arrows and dynamite’_ ,” he made air quotes when he mentioned the props since they both knew it had in reality been sticks and some oblongs rocks, “counts as refusing to go along with it.”

“Shut up,” Simmons replied rather quickly. While it was clear that Grif did have a point, Grif’s purpose was obviously to be the Team’s scapegoat and Simmons did not want to rid him of the one job he was actually decent at. “You were the driver.”

“Of course I was! You’d never be able to make that jump!”

“ _You_ didn’t make the fucking jump!”

“Well, that’s because this thing doesn’t have enough horsepower. Or perhaps they didn’t fix it right. I mean, it was Donut and Sarge…”

Simmons stopped his pacing for a brief moment to stare at him. He snorted. “Good luck using that excuse to Sarge. Maybe he’ll only shoot you twice.”

“Had you been the driver, we would never even have made it to the ditch. You’d be too scared to drive without speed signs to follow.”

The maroon soldier stopped to point at him again. “Hey, we don’t know anything about traffic rules in this country – ugh, place. Planet. Present?” It was pretty difficult to describe their current situation. They needed information, which was why they had gone on this patrol in the first place. So far they had gathered this intel – the place had a ditch so deep that the warthog was now considered stuck.

“We don’t know if they even have any police either, so fuck it.” Grif jumped off the jeep, landing heavily on the sand. So the place was a ditch – quite literally. Sand and more sand and a burning sun above them. It reminded him of Blood Gulch, and that had been a hellhole he did not want to return to ever. While the explosion that had sent them here had been fucked up, it had at least been a way out of the boxed canyon.

Simmons made this strange sound of frustration that sounded like he had bit his own tongue and was screaming while trying to keep the sound in. “Sarge is going to kill us! We need to get this,” he kicked the wheel again, “out of here!”

“Keep hitting it, Simmons. That might work.”

“Shut up and help me.”

“I swear, I just saw it move an inch!”

“Grif!” In a strange moment he was filled with optimistic hope and started to push the warthog with a strained groan. However, his hopes were quickly crushed. The jeep did not move. Grif did not turn up to help him. None of his surprised him, however.

“What are we going to tell Sarge? Aw man, he’s going to be pissed. How are we even going to get to him?! Either we leave the warthog alone, but that would be totally irresponsible, or we split it up, but I know you’re either going to fall asleep guarding it or take a break before you’re even halfway to reaching Sarge. He’ll never let us go on patrol again! Now I have to drive with Donut, and I’m still trying to forget the things he told me at the base when you and Sarge were out and – _fuck_ , the mental images are back.” He paused for a moment to grimace. When he no longer felt he was about to lose sanity, he continued, “Grif, can’t you, uh, drive backwards or something? I don’t know, I’m not the fucking driver. Grif –“ He turned around to grab his friend by the arm and drag him towards the problem. “Grif?”

It did surprise him to see Grif sprawled out on the ground. It probably shouldn’t have. The logical part of his brain told Simmons that Grif being Grif was probably just napping. That should annoy him but he was used to it at this point. But the other half of Simmons’ brain, the one that made sure he was always prepared for every situation, told him to worry. Grif could have passed out from the heat. He could be sick. Possibly dead, though that was unlikely. But who knew – this was a new present with new unknown dangers.

Simmons went into his neutral state of mind – freaked out. “ _Grif_?” He walked over to his fallen friend, stopping the moment his boots were an inch away from the orange helmet so he could hover over the visor. He believed Grif’s eyes were closed since that would be the case if he was either a) napping or b) unconscious.

Sarge had taught him how to wake up a sleeping Grif, though Simmons never kicked him as hard as his Sergeant would have preferred. His boot was about to collide with his side when the other soldier finally showed signs of being alive.

 “You know, this is kinda like Hawaii.”

It was not exactly the words that Simmons had expected, but he would take it. At least the fatass was not dead and he would not be forced to drag his corpse back to the others.

Grif now positioned himself with his hands behind his head to support it. He looked way too relaxed when the truth was they were in deep trouble.

Simmons was having none of it.

“Do you even know how dangerous this is?” he asked with his hands on his hips. “We’re in unknown territory, stuck and presumably outnumbered if the natives decide to show up and attacks us, and you want to take a nap?”

“It’s a legitimate strategy.” Grif would have shrugged had he not been lying on the ground. “You like those. And if you lie still enough, the enemy will think you are dead and fuck off. A nap plus the chance to live. This is the kind of thing they should have taught us in Basic.”

Simmons wanted to argue. He had already lifted his hand and opened his mouth. And he knew that he would be right because napping and therefor accidently playing dead was an idiotic strategy. Really. But it was also the strategy that had saved Grif’s life at his earlier outpost. The one where everyone had been massacred. Except Grif.

So Grif was an asshole. And Simmons was also kind of an asshole. Blood Gulch had pretty much been inhabited by assholes.

But there were also limits that had to be respected. Not that those limits were ever spoken out loud, but, well, they were there. And they were probably the reason why Simmons and Grif had not killed each other yet. So Simmons knew he should never bring up the outpost massacre. The only reason why he even knew about it was because he had read Grif’s files (ahem, for intel, of course. Sarge had ordered him to investigate whether Grif could be a spy that the Blue Team had sent to sabotage them with his incompetence at everything). Then there had been the nightmares where Grif had woken up shouting and muttered some words about the ordeal before he had become fully awake and told Simmons to fuck off.

It was the same reason why Grif would never bring up Simmons’ father or upbringing. There were just some things that would ruin the mood. Therefor: limits.

So now Simmons had opened his mouth and had no idea of what to say. Finally, he decided just to state the obvious. “We really need to get the jeep out of here.”

“We really need a break.”

“ _Grif_!”

“It’s been a long day.”

“Since we travelled through time, I don’t think the term ‘ _day_ ’ can cover the events we went through.”

Grif 's helmet turned slightly upwards as he stared at him. “Fine. It’s been a long fucking war. Does that cover it?”

Simmons nodded. “Can’t agree more.”

With a sigh, Grif reached out to pat the sand next to him. “Take a fucking break, Simmons. Think about it. If we return now, Sarge would know we fucked up immediately. If we return later, he’ll think we actually went patrolling and then we fucked up. And if we manage to get the jeep out of here, he’ll just think we were patrolling extra much. You have everything to gain by taking a break.”

It took a couple of seconds, but then Grif could smile in satisfaction as Simmons sat down next to him. With his arms on his knees, Simmons tried to look relaxed while in reality he would be able to reach for his rifle at any moment. At least he was sitting down.

“So we’re in the future now?” Simmons asked to start a new subject that wouldn’t involve massacres or fathers. And he needed to keep Grif awake, since he would not accept his fellow soldier taking a nap and leaving him alone in a ditch.

“I guess. The fuck if I know. But we’re not in Blood Gulch or that ice planet, or, well, dead, so things turned out alright.”

“Well, O’Malley is still on the loose, so there’s that.” Simmons stopped staring straight ahead to glare at him. “Shouldn’t the fact that we time-travelled freak you out?”

“Nah, I’m too lazy to freak out and you’re always freaked out. I mean, it just kinda fits in with all the fucked-up things in our lives.” He did have a point. While this may be the next step into craziness, the earlier weeks had not exactly been less calm. Their surgeries, their teleportation-adventures and battle with O’Malley were all part of the madness that had defined their stay in Blood Gulch.

“Still, it’s weird.”

“Wow, Simmons – our lives are weird? How can you say such a thing?!” The sarcasm was literally dripping of his tongue.

Simmons resisted the urge to throw sand on his face – helmet. “Shut up. If we’re in the future then that means we’ll never be able to go back home. I didn’t really plan for that.”

“You mean you didn’t plan for travelling into the future? You disappoint me, Simmons. For being a sci-fi nerd, you don’t think far.”

“You’re being a real ass today,” Simmons muttered. He should probably just have given up by now, but these thoughts would not leave his brain alone, and who else did he have to speak them out loud to? Donut? _Sarge_?! “I’m just saying that we’ve left a lot behind now. And we didn’t really know that. I mean, are there people you should have said goodbye to?”

“Already said mine,” Grif replied immediately in a harsh tone. While Simmons had wished for the orange soldier to take the subject more seriously, he was not so comfortable about his sudden change of mood. “I didn’t fucking plan on going into this war, and when that’s the case, you fucking don’t plan on getting out. You have to be realistic and shit,” Grif finished with a voice a bit quieter than the one he had started his rant with.

Simmons’ stomach always turned into this weird knot whenever Grif mentioned the fact that he was a draftee. He was not sure what it was. It could not be guilt since Simmons had played no part in getting him here. At all. Hell, the best thing for all of them was probably if Grif had just been allowed to stay in Hawaii doing what he did best – nothing. Still, it was weird to imagine the team without him. Perhaps the knot was pity, though Grif would probably hate him for feeling that way.

“Oh.” The cyborg really did not know what to say. For a brief moment he wondered who Grif had said goodbye to. The orange soldier had never mentioned his parents, not even the times where Simmons had briefly mentioned his own. For the shortest of seconds, Simmons wondered if Grif had said goodbye to a tearful girlfriend, but he quickly abandoned that thought. It did not really matter anymore.

As sad as it was, being stuck in the future meant that the assholes only had each other. And if they did not find any natives that meant this planet was inhabited by solely assholes.

It was not exactly a comforting thought.

“What about you?” Grif asked, giving them both a chance to leave the draft-subject.

Simmons was grateful when he replied, “I guess I said my goodbyes, too. I mean, I always knew that I – we all could die, but you don’t really want to think about that, I guess.”

“I did. So no unfinished business here. I’m a free man, Simmons. This future is mine to conquer.” Grif did not sound as cheerful as his statements tried to be.

“You mean you want to conquer their food storages,” Simmons snorted to improve the mood even further. “But I wouldn’t worry for this place. You’re too lazy to conquer anything.”

“I’d do a lot for food.”

“I know. So if I promised you a package of Oreos, would you help me push the jeep?” Simmons said, sounding a bit more hopeful that he should be. When Grif actually lifted himself from the ground to stare at Simmons, his heart nearly skipped a beat.

Though, he guessed Grif had narrowed his eyes behind the visor when he said: “You don’t have Oreos. You threw them all out back in the base because I didn’t clean my side of the room. And I still hate you for that,” he added quickly with an extra touch of bitterness.

“Well, it was for your own good. It wouldn’t hurt you to eat something else for once. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt your result on the track exercise.”

Grif apparently decided the conversation had become too trying and he let his head fall back onto the sand. “Stop trying to take care of me, Simmons!” he whined, still grieving his loss of his favorite snacks.

Simmons had apparently almost swallowed his own tongue. “I’m – I’m not!” he finally sputtered, trying to get his artificial lungs to work again.

“Fucking good. Now do you have that package or not? And don’t get my fucking hopes up – not even you would be that cruel.”

Simmons considered lying. He really did. But chances were that Grif would demand to see his sugary treasure before moving an inch, and Grif was right: it would be cruel to think that there was light at the end of the tunnel after this never-ending day.

“No,” he finally admitted.

“I knew it! Good thing I didn’t get up then.”

Simmons snorted loudly. “Yeah, that’d be a tragedy. You do know we have to try and get it out at some point?”

“But not _now_. Geez, Simmons, it’s not like we’re in a rush. The jeep isn’t going anywhere.”

“Of course it isn’t when you won’t get up to move it!” Simmons shrieked and flailed his arms. Grif did not react the slightest. He did not even say another word. There was silence which Simmons feared soon would be broken by snores, so he eventually asked: “So how is this like Hawaii? Shouldn’t there be a sea? Or palm trees?”

“You just described a postcard of Hawaii,” Grif replied flatly.

While that was the truth, Simmons was aware that there was more to Grif’s homeland than that. But he had never been there so who was he to speak of it? “Well, it looked nice,” he said rather sheepishly.

“I just spent many days lying in the shade like this,” Grif replied as he stared at the sky.

“I can believe that.”

“It’s just kinda familiar. Lying here in the sand.”

“There was sand in Blood Gulch, too.”

Grif rolled over on his side to stare blankly at the maroon soldier. “Yeah, but that was fucking _Blood Gulch_. There was nothing homelike about that place.”

“We had red curtains at my place. They could almost look like our flag from a distance.”

“And here I thought only Sarge had horrible taste in decoration.” Grif paused before exclaiming: “Good thing we’re done with that place!”

“Really? You’re that glad to be out of there?”

“Now you sound like you don’t know me, Simmons. I’m fucking overjoyed! Don’t tell me you’ve grown fond to that place.” There was an accusing tone in his voice that kept Simmons from saying that was the case.

But he did not need to lie. After all, Blood Gulch had just been two bases in the middle of nowhere. Grif and the rest of his team (except Lopez, but that was a work in progress), heck, even the Blues were still here. Only the surroundings had changed. Well, Tucker kept rambling about Reds being Blues and Blues being Red but the poor guy had clearly lost his mind. So no, not much had changed.

“Nah, I guess it kinda sucked.”

“Damn right it did. Good thing we’re never ever going to see that place again.”

Simmons gestured to all the sand that was surrounding them. “It’s not like this place is much better.”

“It has a ditch. We didn’t have a ditch.”

“And that was a good thing! Otherwise you would’ve just gotten the jeep stuck there!”

“Still not my fault.”

“I’ll let you say that to Sarge when we return. Which we will. Soon.” Simmons looked up at the sky and tried to find the sun to figure out how long time they had been there. Of course that didn’t work, but fuck it – they had been here too long after Simmons’ opinion no matter what. “Get up, Grif. Break time’s over.”

“Nope.”

Simmons rose from the ground and brushed sand of his thighs. “Come on, Grif! We can’t stay here for hours!”

“Sure we can. I haven’t had my smoke yet.”

With a growl in the back of his throat, Simmons spun around to see that Grif had already taken his helmet off. “Don’t you fucking dare, fatass!” he shrieked, looking like he was about to pounce. “They’re _my_ lungs!”

“They’re inside me, so you can’t really have them back!”

“You could at least show enough gratitude to look after them!”

“I am! I’m giving them something to work with! It’s exercise for them!”

“That’s literally the dumbest thing I have ever heard, you dumbass!”

“Then you didn’t hear yourself call Sarge the greatest leader ever!”

“Drop that cigarette!”

“No!”

“Are we really having this discussion again?!”

“Apparently we are, since you won’t let me smoke in peace!”

Maybe it was not such a big surprise that the warthog managed to stay two hours in the shade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to bring in the trivia that Grif had been the sole survivor of his earlier outpost due to being asleep during the attack.  
> So I didn’t let Grif talk about Kaikana/Sister yet, since I have a whole other chapter planned for the idiots opening up about their families and past. I think the next chapter should be up pretty soon, since I came up with this fantastic joke which pretty much gave me inspiration for the rest of the chapter. Until then, I hope you enjoyed it and thank you for the support!


	4. Stockholm Syndrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons choked. His artificial lungs had stopped working, and he wondered if all his stress could have caused a short circuit. And now when he could not go to Sarge he would be broken forever. He might die. But, well, given the circumstances death might be preferable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set between episode 66 and 68.

Simmons had never imagined himself in this situation. “That’s it!” he shrieked, hands on his helmet in frustration. “I’ve officially lost my mind!”

“And here I thought this whole show was to prove you weren’t crazy! Does that mean I’m being held captive by a maniac?” Grif asked as he ran past him to jump into the gravity lift. It was a rare sight to see the orange soldier moving that quickly, but this ‘imprisonment’ amused him a great deal.

Simmons was too depressed to appreciate what was going on in front of him. “I lost Sarge’s respect-“

“You never had that in the first place,” Grif told him as he ran by again.

“Donut has my job-“

Grif appeared just in time to say: “I cheered for the skull, by way.”

“I betrayed my team, turned Blue and for what?! The others don’t care, and now I’m here pushing you into a grav lift!” Simmons had imagined his life to end in many gruesome ways. After Grif’s accident, many of these scenarios had indeed involved a tank. But he had never imagined that a tank could have caused all of this.

“A hole.”

Grif’s comment pulled Simmons out his thoughts. He blinked. “What?” he asked just in time to see Grif disappear.

Turning his head, he saw him appear a second later. “ _A hole_.”

“Are you saying _a hole_ or _a-hole_?” The fact that Grif never halted his running once to stop and explain himself only made Simmons’ confusion worse. He considered whether or not he should stretch out his leg and trip him.

“See, it’s questions like that which make people doubt your sanity. What the fuck’s the difference, Simmons?!”

The previous maroon soldier put his arms on his hips, eyes darting from one side of the room to the other as Grif ran past. “Well, you’re either correcting me or insulting me.”

“What do I normally do?”

Simmons took a second to think about the question, but then realized the answer was oh so obvious. “Both,” he said flatly.

“You mean _bolth_ , you idiot!” It took less than two seconds for Grif to prove that he was indeed able to do both things in one sentence.

Simmons slammed his hand against his forehead. He could literally feel the headache growing beneath his skull. Had Grif not earlier admitted he had seen the tank too, he could have sworn his brain was just about to explode. “That’s still not how it’s pronounced, dumbass!”

Grif flipped him the finger as he ran by. “Because you are a plausible person at the moment. By the way, Simmons – you are pushing your hostage into _a hole_. Pushing them into a gravity lift is stupid and no clever captor would do that. So it’s a hole, you a-hole.”

“Oh.” Simmons froze as he realized just how their conversation had started. _Oh_. He blinked. “But it’s not really a hole, and I’m not really a captor.”

“What?” Grif asked with an obvious fake whine. “Does that mean you’re not about to fetch the ropes and start the bondage?”

Simmons choked. His artificial lungs had stopped working, and he wondered if all his stress could have caused a short circuit. And now when he could not go to Sarge he would be broken forever. He might die. But, well, given the circumstances death might be preferable.

Seeing his friend doubled over, wheezing, finally made Grif halt. He stared at him but did not reach out. “Shit, Simmons, breathe. Holy crap, can’t you take a joke? Or is my humor so advanced it broke your system?”

Simmons was not sure. He had experienced malfunctions before. Still, he was not able to spot any visible damage. “Are there any sparks?” he asked Grif, remembering the time there had come smoke from his kneecap.

“Between us? I mean, buy me dinner and there might be.”

“ _GRIF_!” There went his lungs again.

The orange soldier took a step back, his head tilted in what Simmons guessed (hoped) was worry. “Christ, I know you’re uptight, but _laugh_ , Simmons. Just trying to brighten up the mood.”

When air finally began to reach his brain again, Simmons straightened himself out while muttering: “I’m not uptight. And you were sounding like Donut.” His tone was accusing in the last sentence.

“What the fuck did you expect?! You left so I was forced to hang out with him.” He paused as he took in a breath, eying his friend carefully before saying: “But no sparks, so fucking chill, okay? No smoke either. But there’s a whole lot of blue that you might want to get rid of before heading back to our base. Wouldn’t want Sarge to shoot you on sight. He might still do that, though. Speaking from experience, he tends to do that when he’s pissed at you.”

They both knew he was right, and Simmons took a moment to consider whether he should follow Grif’s advice. Then again, Sarge was not really the guy who practiced forgiveness, and it was about time that the team learned how much he meant to them. Grif had apologized in his own strange way, but Simmons was still feeling a little… blue (pun intended). “No. _No_. We’re doing this – I’m doing this! Go back in your hole!”

“With pleasure!” Grif told him, actually giving him a salute before running towards the gravity lift. Simmons raised an eyebrow beneath his visor. He could not remember a time where Grif had been this happy to follow out an order. “Wheee!”

“Oh my god.” Simmons face-palmed again. “I can’t believe this is happening!” Truly, even after all the crazy stuff they had been through, he had not expected to lose him mind. Statistically speaking, it had always been a possibility, but Simmons had always been proud of his (after his own opinion, though he never hesitated when he had a chance to prove it) smart brain. But he had never even considered the slightest whether one day he would go Blue and Grif would be his captive.

“I know! This is the best thing ever! Do you think we can get one of these at our base? I mean my base – until you decide to drop your shitty act and come home.”

“My acting isn’t shitty,” Simmons said rather offended.

“You’ve been taking orders from your hostage about how to give your hostage orders. That seems pretty shitty to me.”

“Shut up! I’m new at this!”

“No kidding!” Grif shouted back. “But whatever – keep doing what you’re doing. I’m having the time of my life!”

Simmons breathed in deeply through his nose to calm down. To his surprise, it actually worked, and when it did, he truly recognized how amazing the scene was. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you run this much before. I’m impressed.”

Apparently, Grif did not react well to praise. In what Simmons guessed was spite, the orange soldier stopped running by slamming directly into Simmons when he went through the lift. Simmons was aware of the fact that Grif was not exactly light, but he could not help but feel surprised when his entire weight slammed into his body. Once again, air left Simmons’ lungs.

“Oomph!” They landed heavily on the floor with Simmons’ back pressed against the surface and Grif on top of him. Simmons was squirming beneath him but Grif made no movement to try and get down. “Get off, fatass!”

“See, I’m an even better captor than you,” Grif told him smugly and Simmons had no choice but stare into the orange visor. He literally could not move his head. “You can’t go anywhere.”

“Fuck off, Grif!”

“I might even just take a nap here.” He actually added a yawn to the threat.

While it may have been meant as a joke, Simmons had lost his patience by then. Wiggling his left arm free, he immediately threw a punch at Grif’s shoulder to push him off.

“Oooww!” It worked and Grif fell with a shriek. Simmons pushed himself up by the elbows, groaning a bit. So maybe a bit of it was overreacting, since his metal parts could take it, but still – Grif needed to know that it would not hurt him to lose some weight. When he was sitting upwards, he saw that the orange soldier was still not on his feet, but was instead on the ground, rubbing the spot where Simmons had hit him.

“I didn’t hit you that hard, cry baby,” Simmons told him with a roll of his eyes. If anyone should be complaining, it should not be Grif since he was the one who had decided to slam into Simmons to begin with!

Grif looked up at him in what Simmons could feel was a sour glare. “No, but Sarge does. And he already hit me there this morning.”

Knowing Sarge, that made him feel bad for Grif for a short second before brushing it off. Knowing Grif, it had probably not been _completely_ undeserved. “How am I supposed to keep track of where he hits you?!” he asked angrily, but offered him a hand nonetheless. The cyborg groaned when he pulled him up. Fatass.

“It’s pretty fucking easy, Simmons – he always leaves a mark!” Grif was rubbing his shoulder again and even in his power armor, Simons knew he was sulking. To be fair Sarge did give quite the beating. But if Grif could just stop being so lazy and loudmouthed – if he could just stop being Grif – he probably would not have deserved so many physical punishments. Of course Simmons had realized long time ago that such punishments would not work (confiscating his snacks was a lot more efficient way of teaching him discipline) so Simmons tended not to punch his friend that hard or that many times daily.

But sometimes a punch was required, especially when Grif was being a pain in the ass. “Well, I can’t fucking see that when you have your armor on!”

“Are you telling me to strip?” Grif asked smugly. His head was tilted as if he was carefully watching if Simmons would start malfunctioning again.

“What?! No!” Simmons breathed in through his nose. At least he had not doubled over this time. “Argh, you’re not taking anything serious!”

“How can I take you serious? You’ve painted yourself fucking _blue_! And you even did a bad job with it!”

“I ran out of paint!”

“And why blue? I mean, of course you could do it to spite Sarge, but still. Why not make your own team?”

The idea had never occurred to him before. “My- my own team?”

“Or well, since you took me prisoner, _our_ team. What would that make us? Marange Team? Oroon Team?”

“That’s not how colors work, dumbass.”

“Well, what do we get if we mix them?” Grif asked with true curiosity in his voice and a finger on the bottom of his helmet.

“Something ugly, that’s for sure.”

Grif had let go of his shoulder and was now instead wringing his hands. “I’m just saying it could work. Stay in the background, eat some snacks, and chill out until the war is over.”

“So you’re just going to watch the teams kill each other?”

“Nah, dude, that probably won’t happen. Chances are someone will snap and kill his own asshole teammates.  It could be, hmm, what was his name?”

“Church?”

“Yeah, that guy. And the other blue guy, too. Or Sarge. And Lopez has already tried to kill us. But I’d put my money on the Blues. I mean, they’ve already got a head-start!”

“Good point.” Simmons thought about it for a couple of seconds before coming to an abrupt conclusion. “But wouldn’t that just mean Red Team would end up fighting a pack of ghosts?”

“Aw, man, there’s no way out of this war! No fucking way we could be the new Ghostbusters.”

Simmons snorted. “You would just have eaten the marshmallow monster.”

“Now you’re just making me hungry.”

“What were we talking about again?” Simmons asked out loud. It was way too often that his conversations with Grif ended with them losing the thread. Of course that was Grif’s fault for never taking a subject seriously, but Simmons could not say that out loud without starting a whole new discussion.

Grif shrugged. “I don’t know. Something about you being insane? What the fuck are you planning to get out of this anyway?”

“To show you all that I was right!”

“I knew you were right.”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you say anything?! Friends are supposed to support each other when Sarge claims what you’re saying is wrong when you’re obviously right!”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, as there immediately was a threatening small distance between his visor and Grif’s index finger. “Oh _no_ , Simmons! Don’t you fucking pull that crap, ‘cause where the fuck were you when I said the jeep looked like a puma?!”

“Uhh.” Good point. Good fucking point. Simmons had to give him that one, even though it pained him.

“So if you’re done speaking bullshit, I’ll just return to my hole.”

Simmons closed his eyes, cleared the thoughts from his mind and inhaled air in slowly through his nose. It would only take a few more seconds before-

“Whee!”

-and there he came. “You’re having way too much fun with that thing.”

“This is the best day of my life!”

“This is the worst day of my life,” Simmons almost sobbed.

Grif did not share his melancholy. “Do you know what could cheer you up? A trip through the hole!”

“No! I – Can’t you stay still for a fucking second?!”

“Meh, I can listen to your sad rant about life while doing this.”

“You are the biggest distraction on Earth!”

“We’re not on Earth, idiot.”

“ _Fuck_!”

“This is fun. We should do this more often.”

“This is the worst idea ever.”

“I could do this all day.”

“Please stop.”

“Does this count as exercise?”

“Oh god. You’re making me dizzy!”

“I’m the hole master!”

“Grif! How many times do I have to tell you to stop moving?!”

“Well, that’s a first!”

Indeed, Simmons had never imagined himself in this situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had way too much fun writing this chapter. Humor to all of you! Angst will come later! This literally just started with me coming up with the a-hole joke in the bath (all great ideas’ origin) and then the rest of the chapter kinda just wrote itself. I hope you enjoyed this is as much as I did. Thank you so much for all your support! It means so much!


	5. Wait. What?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons’ brain went blank again as his eyes jumped from Kai’s flirting smile to Grif’s expressionless visor that still managed to look intimidating. While Simmons wanted to take the nearest exit out of this room (it was only natural, of course: this was a tender family reunion, he shouldn’t be here to ruin the moment, it was a valid excuse) his legs and mouth refused to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set somewhat in episode 82. Let’s say Sister get to stay at the base while they prepare Sarge’s funeral. Let’s say that took some time.

Simmons could definitely see that they were siblings. Especially now when Sister had taken off her armor. It made it easier to see.

And there was a lot to see.

Simmons blinked. The hair color was the same as Grif’s – pitch black. But it was longer. While Grif’s stopped as wisps just below his ears, his sister’s continued on and was long enough to tickle her loin.

In Simmons’ humble opinion, Grif’s hair was an unruly mess. He never even suffered from helmet-hair, but instead it always looked like he had just risen from bed (which was probably the case considering the amount of naps he had during a day). Simmons doubted that any comb could keep it under control and knowing Grif he had probably never tried.

His sister’s hair fell in waves. It was unkept like Grif’s but… different. The best way Simmons could describe it was as if she had let her hair loose before swimming for hours and then let it dry in the sun.

Simmons blinked again and wondered why he would wonder about such thing. After all, it was completely inappropriate to imagine his friend’s sister in a bikini.

Though, in reality, it would probably not change much since Grif’s sister was wearing nothing but her underpants and a sport bra underneath her armor.

Simmons gulped.

“Whew, you guys have it hot it here!” she exclaimed happily, stretching her body in an angle that Simmons did not think possible. “I’m sweating buckets.” Yep, there were definitely drops of sweat rolling down her lower back. Simmons was not sure why he looked. He was not sure why he could not look away. “Hey, are my nipples showing in this bra?”

A wire must be loose somewhere. A perhaps a short circuit again. Though, it did not feel like the time where Grif had been his prisoner and had said such… things.  Right now he was just unable to – well, everything. He could not breathe, he could not move, he could not think. His mind was blank.

“Uuhhh…?” The word barely made it past his lips, if it could even be called a word. Even though his head was filled with a thick heavy fog, Simmons somehow managed to recognize this feeling that had locked down his body. He only remembered one other scenario where it had happen. He had been young then, but his father had claimed he was old enough and had shoved a gun into his hands. Simmons had stared at it and had had no idea of what to do with it. The weapon had caused a strange fear inside of him and it had felt strange in his hands.

“Holy crap, Kai! I leave you alone for one minute and you’re already stripping in front of a boy!” Grif appeared out of nowhere. With his hands on his hips, he began the shouting match that his sister did not hesitate to take part of.

She had crossed her arms and was leaning slightly forwards to shout into his face. “It was hot!”

“You can’t go five sentences without calling someone hot!” Suddenly, the fury in his voice was directed at Simmons when he turned his head. “ _You_! Did you tell her to do this?!”

Simmons could not remember a time where Grif had sounded this angry. Not even when he had taken his Oreos to put the orange soldier on an involuntary diet. For the third time that day Simmons thought it was perhaps a very bad thing that Grif’s sister had come to Blood Gulch. “No,” he squeaked. “No, I swear. The armor – it came off. But I didn’t – eep.”

Grif tilted his helmet, but his visor was still set on Simmons. “I believe that. Crap, Kai, you’re killing him.”

“Huh?” Simmons asked, his voice finally returning now when he was no longer alone with the newcomer.

“You’re pale as a sheet, Simmons,” Grif told him and shrugged towards his face.

Sister’s lack of reaction when he had taken off his helmet the moment they stepped inside had surprised him. He had expected, well, something.  It was not like people saw cyborgs every day. Simmons had thought they might as well just get it over with, but Sister had said nothing about it and had instead just started to take off her own armor. All of it.

Then Simmons had regretted that he did not wear his helmet. It would have done a nice job hiding his shocked expression.

“I heard that happens when the blood rush downwards.”

For example, it could have been nice to wear it now when Sister came with that comment. It would have hidden his pained expression as his windpipe closed again. Grif’s presence could only help that much. Now Simmons wondered how long he could survive having his sister around. Perhaps they would be burying both Sarge and Simmons tonight.

Grif raised an eyebrow at Simmons, sighed, and then turned towards his sister to yell: “For fuck’s sake, put your armor back on before he chokes.”

“That’s because he doesn’t swallow quickly enough.” Her lips were split into a wide grin that gave her dimples. There was a happy glint in her eyes that worried Simmons.

“ _Kai_!” Grif hissed, shoving a hand into her shoulder, though the action was gentle enough not to hurt her, even now when he was still wearing armor.

His sister quickly regained her footing after the push. “What? He seems like the guy who could choke on his own spit. Probably why you should be the one taking it, big bro.”

“Wait, what?”

Simmons took Grif’s confusion as an immediate cue to change subject. “Kai,” he said tentatively. She turned her head towards him, still wearing that big grin that really brought out her youth. “Your name is Kai?”

Grif nodded rather gravely. “Kaikaina. Mother was drunk as fuck when she named her.”

Kai stuck out her tongue – Simmons noted the piercing in the middle of it. “At least I didn’t get stuck with ‘Dexter’.”

The brother shrugged it off by literally shrugging towards Simmons. “That guy – his name is Dick. You must love that name.”

“Your name is Dick? Kinky.”

“I- uh?” Simmons’ brain went blank again as his eyes jumped from Kai’s flirting smile to Grif’s expressionless visor that still managed to look intimidating. While Simmons wanted to take the nearest exit out of this room (it was only natural, of course: this was a tender family reunion, he shouldn’t be here to ruin the moment, it was a valid excuse) his legs and mouth refused to work.

Grif grumbled something under his breath, and unlike Simmons his legs were perfectly able to march him out of the room. He returned a brief moment later, though, and threw what looked like an orange blanket on top of Kai’s head. “Put this on.”

She held it out in front of her, and Simmons could now see that it was one of Grif’s t-shirts. It was orange, of course, and too big for her. Not that Kai was anywhere near skinny (instead she wears her chubbiness with pride and joked with how she could kill a man with her thighs) but it still managed to cover her like a loose dress when she grudgingly put in on. “How am I going to get a tan then?” she asked with a sour glanced directed at her brother.

Grif snorted. Like himself Kai had brown skin that showed they were from Hawaii. “I think you got that covered.”

“No, ‘cause I figured out that if I bend like this the sun can get to the areas –“

She had already begun twisting her body in a position Simmons did not think possible (thighs right in the middle of his field of view) when Grif stepped in front of her and gave her a push. “Knock it off.”

Kai sat on the ground and blew hair out of her face. “I bet you’re probably paler than that guy if you never take off your armor,” she snapped at her brother with a finger pointing at Simmons.

Simmons raised an eyebrow when he noticed how Grif stiffened. Even when he was in armor it was clear that he had suddenly become uncomfortable with the situation. Simmons took a step forward in concern. He knew Grif well enough to know that he would never back out of an argument like this. He liked bickering. If his time in the army had made him deadly it was only by sharpening his tongue.

“Come on, big bro. Let me see your face.”

Simmons suddenly understood. While Kai had wasted no time getting out of her armor, Grif had kept his on, and, _shit_ , Kai did not know. Kai did not know and when Grif took off his helmet she would not see her brother’s face.

“I swear, if you’ve end up looking like a damn _malihini_.” Kai had a joking tone to her voice even when Simmons did not understand the word. His eyes were plastered on Grif who was still frozen. Simmons wished he could help but honestly he did not know how to introduce her to the situation. Considering the fact that he had barely managed to say two complete sentences since Kai had started to strip did not really make him the best spokesman after all.

But perhaps it would go well. After all Kai had barely raised an eyebrow when he revealed the metal part of his face. But Simmons had come to the conclusion that he knew very little about the siblings’ relationship (or perhaps he just did not understand it) and he could not come with any predictions.

Simmons was about to announce that he should probably go and help Sarge (that was his duty, after all, and he just really should not be here, especially not now when Grif would remove his helmet and Kai would stare into one of Simmons’ eyes, he really should leave) when Grif reached up and revealed his face.

There was silence and Simmons was looking at the ground. It was better than looking at Grif mainly because he really did not want to see his expression but also because it was still weird to look and see a part of himself.

“Shit, big bro. I knew you have a hack for identity theft, but stealing some guy’s face’s just rude.”

Simmons looked up. He looked at Kai in wonder because of all ways to break the silence he had not expected that comment. Then he put his glance upon the second Grif sibling because when someone had said ‘ _identity theft_ ’ it should not go unnoticed. Simmons mentally decided that the Grif family was a very weird family. It should not surprise him, really. But it did.

From the corner of her eye, Kai saw Simmons’ perplexed expression and recognized the pale skin and freckles. “Oh, you stole that guy’s face.” She then turned toward her brother and lowered her voice into something that should not be called a whisper since it was still loud enough for everyone to hear. “Does he know?”

Grif let out a pained sigh. “He knows, Kai.”

When her hands on her hips, she eyed him closely. In that position she looked like a true critic. “Freckles aren’t really your style, bro.”

“I know.” Grif sighed again and ran a gloved hand through his hair. With his helmet off, it was clear that Simmons had been right – Kai’s hair had the exact same color. It was a nice color, Simmons decided. It looked nice on him – _them_. For a brief moment Simmons felt a pang of guilt for letting Grif’s looks be ruined by his ugly Dutch-Irish skin, but then he remembered it had saved his life, and, well, that did make it worth it. “It wasn’t really voluntary. It’s a skin draft from after I got run over by a tank.”

Kai raised a black eyebrow. The conversation had changed so it was only between the two siblings, but Simmons felt grateful for being left out. He did perfectly fine without the attention from any of the Hawaiians. “Tank? Didn’t I tell you not to get killed?” Her voice was accusing as if she was about to scold him.

“I’m still alive, Kai,” Grif defended himself. He had used a gentle tone to comfort her, but he sounded very tired.

Kai visibly relaxed her body as she let go of the argument. “Huh. Guess you kept your promise then.”

“You sure as hell didn’t keep yours.” The energy had returned to Grif as he began shouting. “What the fuck were you thinking? I didn’t keep you alive for all those years just for you to get yourself killed in the army!”

“Well, if you lasted this long I bet I can go any longer! My agility scores are like 4 times better than yours. But I also had lot of practice.”

“Yeah. Wait, what?”

Before she had a chance to go into details (oh god) a gruff voice yelled loud enough to be heard from outside the base:

“GRIF! I need you to find that shovel you use for your secret stashes so I can hit you over the head with it and then command you to make my grave. A true Red will never dig his own grave! That means my last command will be for you to move your ass! Get going, dirtbag.”

The orange soldier hesitated but then realized that following this order would actually mean he would get a break from Sarge. That would make the job worth it. “Yes, sir,” he said and put his helmet back on. However, before he left the room, he suddenly froze and turned towards Simmons. “Wait, how does he know about my secret stashes?”

Simmons waved it off and casually explained, “Oh, he always makes me dig them up later and then he fills them with rat poison. Hey, don’t look at me that way. I know you’re too lazy to dig it up again so you were practically safe!”

“Hey, are you guys best friends?” Kai asked happily, turning her head to look at Simmons and then at her brother.

“Uh.” Simmons’ word got stuck in his throat again. This time it was not caused by Kai since she was no longer showing too much skin or getting too close to him, but simply because he did not know what to answer.

“I really need to use the toilet!” Kai said again, changing subject so quickly that Simmons wondered if she had actually cared about getting an answer. “I think this armor is too small around the crotch and I need a mirror to see if I got any blisters.”

For a moment it looked like Grif was about to tell her something, but then he slumped forward in defeat. He sighed and then glanced at Simmons. “Just show her where it is. Don’t fucking look.”

“I- I won’t.” Though he doubted Kai would make it easy for him.

Grif seemed to trust him or at least not consider him any real threat, and now turned towards his sister. “You’ll shut the door and stop giving him any ideas.”

“I can’t go for him now. He’s got half your face. That’ll be like halfway doing my own brother.”

“If that’s what it takes for you to stay away, then fine. Stay here and try not to get killed yourself killed– or pregnant.” Grif gave both of them one last glare before muttering something under his breath and left the room to find the shovel. Better not to keep Sarge waiting. If their Sergeant was so excited to get buried then Grif would not be the one to let him wait.

Then Simmons was left alone with Kai and that meant a really awkward silence. Simmons really did not want Kai to be the one to break it with one of her comments, so instead he did what he did best – he corrected something she had said because it would only help people to know when they are wrong. Obviously. “Technically, I don’t have Grif’s face. He has mine. Uh, half of it.”

“Meh,” Kai said and shrugged. “Mom said details never matter. Like when they ask how she managed to grow a beard or how I got stuck in that position.”

“Yeah. Wait, what?”

“I bet she would have loved to take him in now!” She tilted her head to get a better look at the metal side of his face. “You too. Big bro used to love the circus.”

Simmons gestured for her to follow as they walked down the hallway. “So you really grew up in a circus?” he asked with true curiosity. He had never expected that kind of backstory from Grif. And that only made sense! The lazy soldier certainly did not look like a performer. Truly, the only amazing skill Grif may have was to break the world record in how many snack cakes you could stuff in your mouth.

“Well, at first. Had some great cotton candy. Then mom got us an apartment and we lived there, but she still worked as the bearded lady and when the circus had to move on she kinda went along. Then it was just me and Dex. That was fine. A lot less cotton candy, though.” Kai did not look sad, but she no longer wore the big grin that had terrified him earlier.

“Oh.” That was another thing he never would have guessed about Grif. The knot returned to his stomach. While Simmons had never had the happiest childhood himself, he knew it was just wrong for a parent to leave like that. He wondered how Grif had felt about that. He had never said anything about it, but that was not too comforting. After all, Simmons barely brought up his own father but that did not meant it did not bother him. Simmons looked away from Kai to stare at the floor as they moved along. “I didn’t know that.”

He was not sure if he even wanted to know that. He did not know what to do with that information. When it was revealed that Grif’s mother had been a bearded lady it had been fine. You could not know such a thing and not make at least one insult. But this – this was a knot of hurt and Simmons doubted he would ever bring it up to his friend. He decided not to ask further about it. He did not want to know more.

Unfortunately for him, Kai did not give him that choice.

“Mom always said he was the man of the family. Then he kinda became the mom, too. But he was great. I mean, he’s a great big bro. And sorta parent. Lover, too.”

They had reached the bathroom but Simmons could not announce that. He was too busy choking on his own spit.

“Not with me, you fucking perv!” Kai scolded him with a grimace. “That’s just what his girlfriends said. You know, after they broke up and then I hooked up with them.”

“Grif had girlfriends?” Simmons could not even manage to sound surprised. The last half an hour had been nothing but new weird information. Still, he had to ask if it could be true. Which was a normal question to ask, of course. This was Grif after all. No one could imagine a girl choosing to hang out with him. In fact, just imaging that scenario made Simmons uncomfortable. That had to mean it was unlikely.

“Yeah! Not liked we lived in celibacy.” After getting to know Kai, Simmons had no problems believing that. “They never stayed around for long, though. Dex said he never had enough time.”

“Oh.” That was comforting. Uh, well, it explained things. At least it made it sound more realistic.

“So you can totally go for him. Ha, I knew I could get some color in those cheeks. Or at least one of them. Thanks for doing that by the way. Would have sucked to come all the way here only to find big bro dead. But now he has two persons to look after him. About time.”

When Simmons had recovered from her first comment, he stuttered, “Uh… I didn’t really have a choice.”

“That kinda makes you sound like a douchebag.”

Simmons fell quiet. She was probably right. But what could he say? She would not understand how he could never go against Sarge’s orders, even if it meant he would become a cyborg. When Sarge gave a command, he did not have a choice. And what could he have done? Let the fatass die in his pool of blood? Simmons had really not had a choice.

“That’s fine,” Kai said before he could defend himself. “Dex is a huge douchebag, too. Probably why you’ve gotten along so far.” She opened the door and slipped inside the bathroom. “Hey, can I be the flower girl at the wedding?

“Probably. Wait, what?” Simmons asked with a frown when he realized what her last sentence had been.

“Can you hold this mirror for me?” Kai’s voice sounded from the other side of the wall. “I never thought there was a limit for how far I can stretch, but I guess I was wrong!”

Simmons paled and slowly backed away from the door. Leaning backwards he tried to call for help from his friend. “Grif?”

“Actually, I might need some help getting out of this position. Aw, well, happens to everyone. If you could just grab-“

“ _Grif_?!” Simmons whined and ran out of the room as quickly as his legs could carry him. Behind him he could hear the unnerving sound of Kai’s laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for delay. Writing Kai was a pain – first time I’ve ever written dialogue for someone who has a dirty mind and no filter to her mouth. I hope she stayed in character. Plus, this turned out to be an extra long chapter!  
> Thus ending the Blood Gulch Chronicles. Ready to begin The Recollection series? I hope you will stay along for the ride :D Like the series, things will get a bit more serious from here, and I can’t wait to show you all my plans! I will still, of course, bring in humor. I normally only write angst or tragedy, so this story has really challenged me to come up with jokes.  
> Thank you for your support!


	6. You Just Got Sarged!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cyborg was asleep – Grif could recognize this from the rhythmic whirring noise caused by his artificial lungs. This was just unfair. Why could Simmons sleep soundly when Grif, the Master of Napping, could not? Something had to be done to restore the balance of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between season 5 and season 6 but, you know, still counts as season 6. Technically. Shut up. You know I’m right.

Grif had a nightmare. Or perhaps not. In fact, it was a memory, and that was just fucking sad. He dreamt of the day he had been drafted.

He and Kai had been sitting on the worn-out couch that he would use as a bed whenever he had the time to sleep. He had been holding the letter and his hands had been shaking. Kai had rested her head against his shoulder and her tears had made his t-shirt damp.

“Please don’t go, big bro,” she begged him. “You don’t have to go.”

“They’re pretty fucking serious, Kai.”

“But you never follow orders,” she had wailed and punched her fists against his chest. “You promised! You promised you would never leave!”

“I’m sorry, sis,” he said and closed his eyes in regret. When their mother had left he had sworn he would never do the same thing. Too bad the world liked to fuck him over. “I don’t want to go.”

Grif was not an idiot. Or, at least, he was not that big an idiot that he could not see what this meant. He was going to die. He was joining the army and that meant he was fucked, but he had no choice but to suck it up and accept God’s (if he even existed. Lately Grif had begun to wonder about such things) plan and die like the loser he was born to be.

“You’re a fucking liar!” Kai sobbed and Grif was too tired to correct her language. It was not like it had helped the last hundred times. Plus Grif was not exactly the best role model. “You said – You swore – you little-“ Her words were drowned in a sob.

Grif understood. She was going to be alone now and that scared him more than his own tragic fate at the moment. “I didn’t ask for this,” he said quietly and he was not sure if she heard him. But it was so fucking true. He had never asked to be the son of an unreliable mother. He had never asked to be responsible for keeping himself and his sister alive and well at the age of 16. He had never asked for the world to shit on him again and again and get him drafted. Too bad no one had ever listened to Dexter Grif.

“It’s going to be okay, Kai,” he lied. “I’ll be home soon. I think.”

“Just don’t get yourself killed, okay?”

“Me? Meh, I’m too lazy to even join the fighting, Kai. I’ll just find a good napping spot and wait for the war to be over.”

Kai sniffed loudly. “Just… Just stay away from the trapezes. You’ll – you’ll just break them and that’s a pretty lame way to die, big bro.”

Grif blinked. This was not how their conversation had gone. “Huh?”

“It’s still pretty shitty of mom to want you back now,” Kai said bitterly. “Just because you fucked up your face. I mean, I have my ping pong trick but the circus hasn’t drafted me yet.”

With his breath stuck in his throat, Grif stretched out his arms. His left hand was pale and not his own, and he lifted it to feel the scar that ran like a raindrop from his forehead. The fuck?

“You could just tell them to fuck off, Dex. Tell them you don’t want to be a part of their freakshow.”

Nope, this had definitely not happened in real life.

“You’d do well, though,” Kai told him thickly. “Mom will be proud.”

So perhaps it did not really count as a memory, then.

“It’s still a nightmare, though,” Kai told him gravely with tears in her eyelashes and then he woke up.

* * *

His lungs burned – or, well, Simmons’ lungs. Grif lay in his bed, gasping for air, and that really sucked since he spent most of his time awake trying to avoid things that would make him lose his breath. He did not need his nights ruined as well.

Grif sat up and ran a hand through his hair that was wet of sweat. He grimaced. He had no reason to have trouble sleeping. Things were finally going his way. Right?

He had finally left Blood Gulch. That had been his goal since the day he had arrived there. No more Sarge – no more daily threats or abuse. No more Donut – no more daily wine and cheese hour or double entendres. No more Lopez – no more Spanish nonsense or bruises left by a mechanical force.

Simmons was still there, though. The cyborg had not been that easy to get rid of. But perhaps that was not such a bad thing.

Because who else could Grif go and complain to now?

Life may have seemed to change, but in truth, life still liked to screw him over. After all, he had all the reasons to be happy with his new position, and yet he was still shaking from a nightmare, unable to go back to sleep, and that was just a damn tragedy.

Along with his new title came his own private room. That was something new. Even before sharing quarters with Simmons in Blood Gulch, he had settled with the couch in the kitchen slash living room in their little apartment. Grif did not like kissassing, but free stuff could be tolerable. Had they given him extra rations, for example, he would never have complained.  But this new private room was too quiet and that was unsettling.

Grif would claim his right to sleep no matter what, so he swung his legs over the edge of his bed and left the room. Rat Nest’s was oddly quiet at night, and Grif could walk down the darkened hallways without anyone watching him. That was probably a good thing – Grif doubted that a Sergeant was supposed to be seen without his armor on. Not that he cared.

Simmons had his own room. He claimed this was caused by an uneven number of recruits which left him with no teammate to share quarters with, though Grif had replied that Simmons must have scared them all off with his nerdiness.

No matter what the truth was, it still meant that Grif could march into Simmons’ room with no further problems. The cyborg was asleep – Grif could recognize this from the rhythmic whirring noise caused by his artificial lungs.

This was just unfair. Why could Simmons sleep soundly when Grif, the Master of Napping, could not? Something had to be done to restore the balance of life.

Grif tore the pillow away from under the cyborg’s head and then proceeded to slam it into his stomach. Simmons’ eyes shot open and he let out a gasp. A second later, he had stretched out his arm towards Grif, and, holy crap, was he reaching for an imaginary rifle?

“Just me, idiot,” Grif told him sternly since he had not planned on getting killed by accident.

Simmons blinked and took in a deep breath as he realized what was (or perhaps rather what wasn’t) going on. “You – you _fuck_!” Simmons was a morning person. Grif knew that from experience. But maybe the cyborg was not a night person. Or maybe he just did not enjoy rude awakenings. No matter what, Grif did not care. “What do you want, Grif?!”

“Your Sergeant requires your assistance.”

“Get out of my face, you cockbite,” Simmons snapped and rolled over to stare at the wall. Since Simmons had not taken the whole promotion-thing that well, it was perhaps not the best way to start the conversation. But it was better than the truth.

Grif still had the pillow in his hands and slammed it down on his shoulder. “Siiimmons,” he whined.

The cyborg stopped ignoring him and sat up. “What?” he asked harshly. “What could _you_ possible want at 2.32 am?!”

Grif was about to ask how he knew the exact time but then realized it was probably some program that Sarge had installed during the surgery. One of the pros of being a cyborg. All Grif got was some freckles – and, of course, the chance to live.

“I can’t sleep,” he finally revealed with a grave voice.

“You… _You_ can’t sleep? Holy fuck, the world must be ending.”

Grif did not let Simmons’ sour mood get to him, but instead he nodded slowly. “It’s the end of times. Any heartfelt revelations must be said now.”

“I fucking hate you,” Simmons said without missing a beat. “Why the fuck are you here? I’m not going to sing you a lullaby.”

“I don’t know. You could just start your chant of ‘fun facts’ again.” Grif made quote marks in the air. “That’s boring enough to get anyone to fall asleep. Tell me about pi. Or pies. Rather pies. The edible ones.”

Simmons muttered something under his breath. He was now fully awake and when the blanket fell off his torso, Grif could see all his mechanical parts – all the blinking lights and panels glowing in the dark room. Simmons had been right back when he had called the result of their surgeries for weird. “Alright, dipshit. Why can’t you sleep?”

“So, I’ve been wondering…”

Simmons face-palmed. “For the love of… Can’t this wait to a time where we’re not supposed to be sleeping?”

“But I can’t fucking sleep, moron! So you’re missing a point!”

“So what were you wondering about? Why we’re here?” Simmons asked sarcastically. While his facial expression had softened, it was clear that he was still angry. Grif was not completely sure why. The rude awakening could be the obvious reason, but Simmons had been in a bad mood ever since Grif had been promoted, which was really unfair. It was not like Grif had asked for it. It was not like he had refused it either, but, hey, when life was kind enough to grant him a chance to get back at Sarge he could not say no.

“Meh, maybe. Or maybe more like why the others aren’t here. Not that I’m complaining. Heck, look at me. I’m finally reaching my full potential.”

“You’re the worst Sergeant ever. Of all time,” Simmons replied flatly, thinking about Grif’s poor “attempts” (if they could even be called that. The orange soldier only gave orders if it concerned food, otherwise he would shrug off those under his command) to lead his team yesterday.

Grif tsk-ed at him. “That’s no way to speak to your superior, Simmons.”

“You’re the worst Sergeant ever of all time, sir.” Simmons’ glare was hard. “Why didn’t they pick _me_?!” There was this desperate sigh in his voice that actually made Grif pity him. Just a little bit. “You haven’t even read the Red Army Handbook.”

“Nobody has read that except for you, nerd.”

“Which makes me the perfect candidate for promotion!”

“But guess what, Simmons – life is fucking unfair. Don’t expect anything from it, don’t think you can ever earn something. It doesn’t work that way. So suck it up.”

“You’re going to get us all killed.”

“So? Same fucking shit in Blood Gulch. And the rest of the guys here? They’re assholes, Simmons, and not the kind of assholes we actually like – no, wrong word. Not the kind of assholes we can actually endure living with. So what if they die. Not like we care about them.”

Simmons slowly raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying you preferred Blood Gulch.”

“Simmons, I’d die before I would utter those words. What I am saying is that Blood Gulch was bullshit. But this place? This is shitty bullshit. I don’t…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Don’t you wonder why we’re here? Why we’re here when, and don’t mistake this for touchy feel shit, when Donut isn’t here? Or Sarge? Or Lopez? Or Kai?”

When Grif finished softly, Simmons was staring at him with a widened eye – the green light that worked as his left eye never really changed size. For the first time since Grif had woken him up, he began to realize just why he was in his room. “They’re fine, Grif,” he finally told him, swinging his legs out of the bed so there was space for him to sit next to him which Grif immediately did. “I mean, Sarge has probably blown up something by this point, but Lopez is there to fix his mess. Donut is – I don’t want to know what he is doing, but it’s probably less dangerous than our old base. And Kai is probably just having fun.”

“I’m not worried, idiot. I know they’re fine. But I also know my sister and an empty base is too much space for her to work with.”

“Well, at least there’re no boys she can go after. Unless you’re counting Sarge, but she called him ugly and gross, and Lopez is a robot so that has to be safe.”

Grif was frowning. “She’s totally go for foreigners. Holy fuck, if Lopez even…” He clenched his fists before deciding not to go down that line of thoughts. “Look, if someone can get pregnant by a robot, it’s my sister. And that offspring would end up looking like you and no one deserves that.”

“Thanks, jerk.”

Grif rolled his eyes. Now was not the time for Simmons to be sensitive. He had called Grif for worse things. “I’m just saying this shit is weird. And not the normal kind of weird that we’re used to. The wrong kind of weird.”

“Care to elaborate? If I’m brave enough to keep listening.”

“Just follow me here, Simmons,” Grif said and spread out his arms to make gesture, almost hitting the cyborg in the face. “Someone thinks I’m the best and decides the reward me? That’s not normal. That’s what Sarge would call ‘diabolical’. And you know what’s weirder than collect a group of idiots and call it an army? To do that and then suddenly split those idiots up. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Well,” Simmons said slowly and tilted his head. He was looking intensely at Grif but his expression revealed none of his thoughts which really drove the orange soldier crazy. “At least we ended up the same place. And Caboose, I guess.”

Oh, yes. Grif had almost forgotten about the Blue soldier. While Grif had managed to make (friendly, nah, neutral) contact with the other team (preparation for future plans that he was still working on) it was not like he could just visit the other Blood Gulch soldier at a daily basis. Not that he wanted to, either. “Hmmm. Wonder how he’s doing, though his teammates can’t be fucking worse than ours.”

The cyborg punched him in the shoulder – with his fucking metal hurt which hurt no matter how friendly the intention might have been. “They’re not that bad.” Obviously, Simmons was yet to speak with any of his teammates, but that did not really surprise Grif. It was not like the cyborg was great at making friends.

“Simmons, I swear, the glares they give me – they look like they want to kill me.”

His actual eye was squinting in annoyance. “First of all – what glares? We’re all wearing helmets! Secondly; that’s because you made them give you their lunch.”

“Being a kissass you must understand the honor of sacrificing your meal to your Sergeant.”

“I’m sure as hell not going to give you mine,” Simmons spat at him with a criticizing glare at the tummy behind the orange t-shirt.

“Is that a tone of disobedience, Private Simmons?” Grif smirked. As weird as this promotion-thing might be, it was a quick way to mess with the cyborg’s head. Finally fate gave him some tools to work with.

Simmons snorted. “You’ve been such an ass since you got your new title.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I got sarged.”

That only seemed to frustrate the cyborg even further and he exclaimed: “That’s not even a real word to describe a promotion, dumbass. That’s just Sarge’s one-liner.”

“Oh god.” Grif thought about the word and immediately images of Sarge filled his mind. As weird as this place might be, it did at least give him a break from that. He did not need to be reminded of his former Sergeant – he already had nightmares enough. “I need to bleach my tongue. I’ll never say it again.”

“Well, that’s one less word in your dictionary that you can embarrass yourself with. Keep this up and you might even last another week before your men decides to overthrow you.”

Grif waved him off. “Meh, like that would ever happen.” Taking in a deep breath, he looked away from his friend to instead stare into the darkness that embraced the room. The only source of light was coming from the cyborg and that barely managed to illuminate the sparsely decorated room. Grif had forgotten how Simmons could work as a bedside lamp. He held back a snort when he remembered how Kai had always kept hers on to keep the nightmares away. Grif’s presence in Simmons’ room suddenly felt very ironic. “At least your nerdiness manages to shield you from them. Would have sucked to share room with them.”

“I guess it’s pretty weird having my own room,” Simmons said and stared ahead as well. “I’ve become so used to your snoring. I think you’ve given my ears trauma, you dickhead.”

Grif smiled so faintly that the darkness hid it. “What can I say? I grow on people.”

“Like bacteria,” Simmons snorted.

“I’ll take it.” Grif hesitated before he casually said: “So when we decide to ditch this place, I have this idea of how to earn the money to go to the Vegas quadtrant.”

“For the last fucking time, I’m not going to the Vegas quadtrant!”

Grif was going to prove him wrong. At some point. That was his new goal in life, he decided with a hidden grin. “I’m just saying that we have a lot of ammo that nobody uses.”

“That’s for the war, asshole!”

So the Blues would occasionally come over to throw some grenades and insults. Some days later the Reds would do the same. But compared to O’Malley, Freelancers, time-travelling, aliens, pregnant dudes and talking bombs Rat’s Nest was pretty damn dull. “Which war?! This place is boring as fuck. Nobody would even notice if it went missing.”

“I’m pretty sure they would when they are trying to defend themselves from the enemy!” Simmons had turned around slightly to stare directly at him. While he did not seem as mad as he had been when he just woke up (or, well, was woken up), he was not exactly pleased with his friend. “You are the worst fucking Sergeant ever! I have to go against my own nature because I simply can’t kiss your ass. Do you know how conflicting that is?”

“Keep lecturing me, Simmons,” Grif said with a tired voice and settled back against the wall. He closed his eyes but this went unnoticed by the cyborg who continued his scolding.

“You are destroying my character traits!” he shrieked and looked at his own hands as if he was about to dissolve completely. “I worked so hard to get Sarge’s recognition and what do I get? _You_! And you don’t care about anything so that means I could just as well stop trying! You are turning me into you! You are literally the cause of an existential crisis, you-“

He was cut off by the sound of snoring. Mouth agape, he turned his head to see if it could actually be true.

Grif’s head was resting against the wall, chest rising and falling steadily and a drop of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Oh my god. You fell asleep to that?!” the cyborg asked in disbelief but fell quiet when he realized that his friend was unable to answer. If Grif had one skill, it was to be able to fall asleep under all circumstances.

Simmons considered waking him up. Throw the pillow into his face to give him a taste of his own medicine. But an awake Grif would mean an awake Simmons since that was what had brought the orange soldier to his room to begin with, and honestly, Simmons would like to get some hours of sleep before a new day began.

The cyborg let his head fall back as well. Grif had taken half of his bed which meant Simmons had to sleep in a sitting position as well. He breathed in through his nose in annoyance when he realized how much pain his neck would be in when he woke up. Grif would not even be grateful for that sacrifice.

Simmons had closed his eyes and slowed his breathing when Grif’s head fell to rest against his shoulder. The cyborg’s eyes went to the ceiling in disbelief. Now he would get drool on his metallic parts.

Oh well. He probably could not even wake up the fatass even if he tried.

Simmons was just about to fall asleep as well when a worry entered his mind. He really hoped that Grif could sneak out of his room without being spotted by the rest of their team.

Would not want them to think that their Sergeant played favorites. Or something.

But with the sound of Grif’s snores in his ears, Simmons could not help but fall back into their old routine and slowly drift off as well.

So maybe not everything had changed that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny story about this title. I’m not a native English speaker, and when I planned all these chapters, I come up with the title pretty early on, but when I wrote my notes for this chapter, I forgot the word ‘promoted’ (any bilinguals know the struggle of suddenly missing a word you know) and I was like: “He became a Sergeant? Meh. He was made a… He turned into… He was sarged!” And thus the title.  
> Also, new summary! Now you get a tiny sneakpeak into all the chapters! Any in particular you can’t wait to read?  
> Thank you for your support!


	7. Fake Grif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took seconds before the pieces fell in place. He could hear the mechanic parts inside of him whirr as he slowly came to realization that Grif was not dying – at least not yet. “You – you!” The words kept getting stuck in his throat but his body did not lock down. Instead, his left arm went flying and his fist connected with Grif’s chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between chapter 6 and 7 of season 7.

“Fucking stupid idiot,” Simmons muttered under his breath as reloaded his gun. “Going to get himself fucking killed, that stupid… Fucking moron.  A goddamn dumbass.”

The hologram version of Grif showed up when Simmons pushed the orange button on the panel. “You seem to be in a good mood,” he said cheerfully, just in time to have a bullet flying past his helmet. “Oh, you missed.”

“Shut up and stand still,” Simmons growled and fired another shot.

This time he managed to hit him in the leg. “Ow!” the hologram complained loudly but then switched back to his weirdly contented behavior. “That’s alright. The sole purpose of my existence is to stand ready as a shooting target. And I deserve that because I’m a filthy piece of trash.”

“Just stop talking,” Simmons barked at him and took aim.

Holo-Grif tilted his head. “Do you want me to beg for my life? I’ve been programmed to be able to do that.” Of course Sarge had added that option. The real Grif would never feel threatened enough to actually show fear like that. So some things could only come true through holograms – Simmons knew that better than anyone.

“What? No! Just- just shut up!” Simmons shrieked and thought about where to hit the hologram. While he knew it was not real and could not exactly feel pain, it still felt strangely wrong to shoot the orange soldier straight in the head.  Not that the real Grif deserved anything less. Fucking idiot.

“I love boners!”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“What? No – be quiet! Fuck, you’re annoying.”

“I’ve been programmed to-“

“-to be an exact copy of the real Grif,” Simmons finished for him with a gun pointing at his orange chest plate. “But guess what? You are failing to even do that ‘cause you can’t match his level of annoyance! Had I programmed you, I would have made you stupid enough to believe you could survive going on what is clearly a suicidal mission.”

Holo-Grif was quiet for a moment and Simmons wondered if he had managed to offend him deeply. Not that he cared – he was, after all, just about to shoot him. Bullets hurt more than words. Well, most of the time they did. The hologram finally tilted his head. “Well, my programming doesn’t allow me to leave this room-“

“I don’t care! Why are you talking that much?”

The hologram paused as if he was truly considering what to answer, but then he just asked in a way similar to the real Grif: “Do you have any Oreos?”

“What – no!” Simmons sputtered as he was taken back by the question. “And you don’t either because you ate them all last week when you tried to see how many you could have in your mouth. And no – 21 is not impressive, it’s gross. And now you have nothing to bring with you on your trip, but lucky me don’t have to put ear to your bitching because I’ll stay right here. So the joke’s on you, asshole.” Simmons finished with an angry huff, quite satisfied with his scolding. Then he realized this was not the same Grif who had done these things, and Simmons could not help but feel a little but embarrassed. Oh well. What happens in the hologram chamber stays in the hologram chamber.

“I think I can beat that!” the hologram exclaimed, as he immediately caught on to the fact that Simmons had been talking about another person. “Do you have any Oreos?”

“You can’t even eat!”

If a hologram could look sullen, this one was doing it. Fake Grif shifted his feet. “Just rub it in.”

Simmons gritted his teeth as the anger kept burning inside his metal torso. He lifted his hands to aim at his head. “Oh, you’re hungry? Then taste my bullets, asshole!”

“Wow, Simmons,” a voice called out slowly behind him. Simmons breathed in through his nose and his grip on his gun faltered. “That sounded so intimidating. Have you been taking lessons from Sarge?”

“Shut up,” the maroon soldier called over his shoulder.

Grif slowly strolled down the stairs and placed himself on the chamber’s floor with a respectable distance from both the hologram and Simmons. “I mean it. We’re just about to shit our pants. Isn’t that right, holo-me?” he asked with a nod towards the holographic version of himself.

“I have pants? Awesome! If only I could take off my armor.”

Grif sighed deeply. “You’re an embarrassment.”

Simmons crossed his arms but still held onto his gun. “You’re the one to talk,” he snorted.

Even though they were all wearing helmets, Simmons could almost see Grif raise an eyebrow in confusion. “Who pissed on your calculator?”

“I’m not pissed. Who’s pissed? I’m not!” Simmons sputtered. When he saw that Grif was still staring intensely at him, he deflected the question with a: “Shut up.”

As Simmons had not given any explanation, Grif turned to the hologram instead. “Holy crap, what did you say to him? I haven’t seen him this pissed since the time I sold his math magazines to Tucker.”

That memory did not help on Simmons’ sour mood. “It was called ‘erratic functions’! Not ‘erotic’!” he shrieked in frustration even though it was way too late to correct the dumbass now.

Grif shrugged carelessly. “Meh, he didn’t figure that out until after he paid me.”

“Again – a fucking stupid deal. What could you even use cash for in Blood Gulch?!”

“Do I need to spell it for you? Vegas quadtrant,” Grif said slowly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Which it clearly was not.

“You’re so fucking stupid.”

“Hey!” The exclamation was extra loud as the two versions of Grif said it out loud in unison. Judging by the perplexed looks the orange soldiers gave each other afterwards, it had not been planned.

Simmons rolled his eyes as he turned to the fake Grif. “Stop complaining – nobody cares about you.” And that was true. This was a hologram designed to be killed over and over – your feelings for it was limited to be anger. Besides, it could not even fulfill its job to be exactly like Grif.

Without hesitation, Simmons promptly shot the hologram straight in the stomach. It looked up at him in what could have been betrayal (again, helmets) before dissolving into nothing.

“Why, Simmons?” a weak voice croaked out. Simmons turned his head to see Grif (the real one obviously, since he had just killed the fake one. Right?) doubled over with his hands pressed against his stomach.

Something clicked inside Simmons’ brain. He could hear it echo. “Grif?” He rushed over while telling himself the logical facts – this is not how holograms worked, there was no way this could be possible, he had not meant to – and tried to pry his hands away to see the wound.

Grif suddenly spread out his arms, revealing that there was no blood or bullet hole, and yelled out with a smug voice. “Got you, asshole!”

It took seconds before the pieces fell in place. He could hear the mechanic parts inside of him whirr as he slowly came to realization that Grif was not dying – at least not yet. “You – you!” The words kept getting stuck in his throat but his body did not lock down. Instead, his left arm went flying and his fist connected with Grif’s chin.

Grif stumbled backwards, visibly shocked. With a hand on the sore spot, he tried to recover from the punch. “Ow! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Me?” Simmons sputtered, even though he knew that he had used his cyborg hand and that had to hurt, but the asshole had deserved it. “What is wrong with you?!”

“I was just trying to make a joke since the mood is so cheerful down here!” Grif spat sarcastically. His body was slightly crouched in what seemed to be a defensive position.

“You’re a fucking idiot!”

“You’re the one who fucking punched me!”

“Sure – whine about that,” Simmons snorted loudly. “Because that’s your real problem right now.”

Grif had finally removed his hand away from his chin. Simmons could literally feel his angry narrowed eyes through the visor. “Well, I could conjure up a holo-Simmons and shoot him since that seems to be an acceptable way of dealing with suppressed anger in Red Base. But since I prefer not to look like a psychotic maniac, I stick with complaining.”

“You’re the maniac. What the fuck were you thinking?!”

“I don’t know!” Grif was shaking his head in frustration. “That you might laugh or at least feel bad about shooting holo-me.”

“Not about that, dumbass.” How typical of Grif to be so stupid that he could not even comprehend the real problem. “ _Why_ are _you_ going on a suicide trip with Sarge?”

“Because he promised a picnic with Oreos as dessert and how could I deny extra time with Sarge?” Grif said with a voice dripping with sarcasm before changing tone. “What do you think, asshole?!”

“I don’t know!” Simmons shrieked so loudly that his voice cracked. “I have no idea at all! Why are you suddenly suicidal?!”

“Oh, so this count as a suicide mission? What about the time we went after O’Malley? Or the Wyoming dude? Or the time we broke into a Freelancer facility?” Grif recited their list of crazy adventures with a tired voice.

“This is different!”

“Yeah, we’re going to a desert. Seems pretty chill to me. Or, well, not _chill_. Fuck it, you know what I mean.”

Simmons had to fight the urge to grab the oblivious idiot by the shoulders and shake him in frustration. “This time you are going without the rest of your team! That’s the difference. How the fuck else do you think you survived the other times?”

“You know, I normally ask myself how I’ve survived this far being surrounded by my teammates. You all have a nasty habit of shooting me in the face,” Grif reminded him bitterly. To be fair, that had not happened in a while. But, well, he did have some reason to be cranky.

Still, that did not excuse his goddamn stupidity that was going to get him killed. “You’re so goddamn stupid.”

“If you’re that crazy about it, why don’t you just come along?”

Simmons crossed his arms. “With Sarge reaching a new level of obliviousness? No thank you. I like staying alive.”

“Careful, Simmons, or he might hear you,” Grif warned him teasingly, though there was no humor in his voice. This argument had gone in another direction than their usual bickering, and Simmons was not sure of how to feel about it. While such an argument always gave backlashes, this situation required hard words.

“I don’t care,” he replied stiffly, but meant every word.

“Yeah, what’s with all that not-caring by the way? If I didn’t know your hatred of snack-cakes, I’d say you were turning into me.”

It seemed like Grif had not noticed his own behavior so far. That left Simmons to remind him of his unusual (but still stupid) choices. “Like you’re the one to talk. Why are you kissing Sarge’s ass?”

“I’m not,” Grif barked to quickly to defend himself. “I’ve just agreed to go along with Caboose’s stupid plan – that’s something entirely else.”

“If you think it’s so stupid why are you coming with him?!” Grif’s lack of logic had finally driven him crazy. He had witnessed it for years now, but watching the idiot getting himself killed with his stupidness was not something Simmons could ignore.

Grif shifted his feet. “You know why – I’m investing in my own future here.”

“That future won’t mean shit if you die on the mission.” Simmons paused and looked to the side. “What happened to ‘ _today is a good day to retreat_ ’?”

“What happened to _‘I’ll gladly poison Grif’s next meal’_?” Grif gave back harshly with his hands on his hips. “Since when the fuck do you care?”

Simmons had opened his mouth to answer when he was rudely cut off by a hologram that appeared out of nowhere. Perhaps the thing was broken. Or maybe the respawn time took way too long. No matter what, this Holo-Grif was not welcomed right now.

“I love boners!”

“Nobody cares!” Simmons and Grif yelled in unison. The hologram backed away slightly.

Grif hesitated for a moment before admitting: “Well, he isn’t wrong.”

“Ugh, you’re hopeless. This is why you’re going to get yourself killed!”

“Because I love boners?” Grif asked in honest confusion.

“Because you don’t take anything serious! And this time you can’t count on me to save your fat ass.”

Grif pressed an accusing forefinger against his maroon chest plate. “Here’s some fucking news, Simmons. I don’t need you, and I did just fine before I was introduced to your sorry hide.”

Simmons did not even flinch when he retorted: “You’ve survived by sheer luck, cockbite.”

Compared to all the other things that Simmons had told Grif, this was not meant to be a big insult. Simmons had just been stating the obvious. But judging by Grif’s reaction, Simmons could just as well have insulted his mother – no, not mother, Grif did not care about her, instead it was as if Simmons had insulted Kai.

Grif was fuming. He could barely put the words together to get back at Simmons. “You – you fucking! You think I was lucky to get fucking drafted, you asshole?! You think I was lucky that I took that nap? You don’t even – you weren’t fucking there – you – you _fuck_.”

The orange soldier was shaking, and for a moment Simmons wondered if it was his turn to receive a fist to the face. Seeing his friend like this did cause a tiny knot of regret to take shape in his stomach. But if this was what it took to make Grif see reason, then it would be worth it. Eventually. Still, Simmons could try to explain himself in a bit more gently way. He had opened his mouth when he realized he had no idea of what to say.

Luckily he was saved when holo-Grif cut in: “Do you guys have any Oreos?”

Though, it did not change the fact that he was annoying as hell (almost managed to reach Grif’s level now – perhaps Simmons should not have been so quick to judge him). “Shut the fuck up!” Grif and Simmons yelled in unison once again.

After taking in a deep breath, Grif put his glance on Simmons again. “You know what? I’m fucking glad that you’ve decided to be a fucking coward and stay here, ‘cause then it’ll be Donut who has to listen to your bullshit. I need – deserve a break.”

So that hurt. A little bit. Jerk. “Uh, well, I’m the one who is happy,” Simmons stuttered before finding the strength to make his voice sound satisfied. “Now you can’t eat all our rations and make a mess of our room. We might finally get some work done.”

 “What work? You’ll invade an empty base? Good work, Simmons, that’s a real achievement to be proud of,” Grif told him with his usual sarcasm. “Sarge might finally praise you.”

Well, knowing Sarge it was quite possible that Grif was right about his last comment. In their leader’s mind, an invaded base was an invaded base no matter how little resistance there had been. “You know, I think he actually might.”

“Good for you,” Grif snapped at him. “Finally happiness in life, huh? Have fun with that.”

“You’re such an idiot.”

“Oh, I’m the idiot?”

Simmons crossed his arms and nodded. “And a lazy fatass.”

“Hey!” the two Grifs yelled at him on the same time. They were both showing the same offended body language.

Simmons’ headache told him he was not able to deal with both of them right now. One of them was bad enough. He turned his back to them and started to walk out of the chamber. “Oh, shut up. I’m trying to save your life here.”

“How?” one Grif asked him.

“By insulting us?” the other one said.

“By making you aware of your own incompetence,” Simmons replied flatly.

“Oh, because I don’t know that thing.”

“It’s not like all of you spend your entire day yelling it at me.”

“Which really isn’t nice.”

“It’s pretty annoying.”

“So fuck you.”

“Yeah!”

Simmons had enough of the two Grifs going against him on the same time, and so he finally stopped walking. This argument was obviously not over yet. He turned around to see the two of them standing next to each other with their arms crossed.

The maroon soldier sighed deeply. “Why don’t you just go pack your things, Grif.”

“Like I’d follow your orders,” one of them snorted at him.

The other one nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And so they began again. “Me neither.”

“Who are you even bossing around?”

“It’s not like you can tell us apart.”

“We do look alike.”

“Well, I’m slightly more handsome.”

“Ah, quit fooling yourself.”

Simmons’ headache had developed into a loud ringing inside his skull. Without hesitation, he suddenly lifted his gun and shot one of them straight in the head. The hologram dissolved immediately.

There was three seconds of silence before Grif raised his head to look directly at Simmons’ visor. “You’re an ass, Simmons.” There was no anger in his voice. No humor, either. It was just an ice-cold statement. Somehow it hurt worse than when he had been yelling.

“Stop being a cry-baby. It wasn’t in doubt.” And that was true. He knew how to tell the hologram apart from the real deal. Besides, Grif’s so-called joke had definitely made it clear that shooting the real orange soldier was not as fun as it should be. Even though it was tempting.

“Because you know me that well,” Grif snorted.

“Well, I thought I did, dipshit. But it’s not like you are you today.”

 “Another meeting of the Pronoun Club, huh?”

Simmons gave up. If that idiot refused to see the gravity of his choice, then fine. Simmons would be there and tell the grave that he had warned him. It was not his fault that Grif refused to listen. “You – Just go get yourself killed with Sarge. I don’t fucking care.”

“Good,” Grif replied quickly. “Then quit your bitching.”

“Why are you even down here?” Simmons asked him harshly. The orange soldier had never explained why he had entered the hologram chamber in the first place.

“To give you a farewell kiss, you fuck. What do you think? No, don’t answer that. It doesn’t fucking matter ‘cause I’m out of here. Enjoy your fun time with Donut, asshole.”

Angrily brushing shoulders with Simmons as he marched past him, Grif stormed out of the room.

Simmons stood still until the last sound of footsteps had faded away. When that had happened, the chamber became painfully quiet. He could hear the sound of his artificial lungs working and it was even louder than normal as Simmons was panting after the argument. It ached slightly whenever he breathed in. Fucking Grif. Messing him up like this. Fucking idiot. Simmons closed his eyes.

The lights flickered slightly as another Holo-Grif took shape.

“I’m a lazy piece of shit!”

Without even looking up from the ground, Simmons shot him.

The hologram faded away and Simmons was left alone in the chamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was hard to write, and it took a while before I got the dialogue right. It still feels weird that there is no happy ending here. If it is any comfort, then it will kinda be continued in the next chapter. I mean, even though they all are one-shots, they all affect each other. The last chapter will work as a nice bow and tie them all together.   
> Thank you so much for your support!


	8. Cliffhanger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re seriously not going to complain? Simmons, I’m smoking. Right now. In your face.” To prove his point, he took a drag and exhaled it with his face up against Simmons’ visor. He did not pull away. “Holy fuck, are you dying?!”  
> No, but Grif had almost died. An hour ago. In front of Simmons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in episode 20 of season 8.

Sidewinder was cold. Really. It felt even colder than the last time they had been here. Simmons shivered and thought of Grif. The Hawaiian had to be freezing his ass off.

That was a reason to check up on him. Another reason. Simmons had plenty of them. He had been stockpiling them ever since Grif and Sarge had rescued him. So perhaps it was weird that he had not pulled him aside yet. Or perhaps it would be weird if he pulled him aside. Simmons was not sure.

It seemed like this place was good at numbing the mind.

He had tried to start the conversation when they had been busy saving Grif. Simmons had offered to be the one dangling from the edge of the cliff so he could reach out for Grif with his metal hand. Tucker and Caboose had kept a secure grip on his ankles so he would not fall, and Sarge had been complaining in the background. Still, he had made no attempt to disrupt the rescue and Simmons saw that as Sarge’s quiet way of saying that he cared.

“Grif, hurry the fuck up and grab my hand!”

The orange soldier let out of yelp and clung even tighter to the brute shot. “Wou-wouldn’t want to leave you hanging,” Grif tried to joke but his shaking voice ruined his attempt at humor.

Suddenly, the brute shot shifted and Simmons’ heart stopped when he heard the ice creak. Luckily, the weapon did not fall entirely but instead it was slightly tilted, sending Grif another inch away from Simmons. The orange soldier let out a whimper.

“Fuck!” Simmons exclaimed and forced himself to take a deep breath. He could feel the blood rush to his head. “Come on, Grif!”

Grif’s grip on the weapon tightened.

“My hand is right here, you idiot!” Simmons called out, adding an insult because he was desperate. He could not stay like this forever, he might faint, and, oh god, what if it happened once he finally got a hold of the moron?

“I can’t see it!” Grif shrieked back.

“What?!”

“I’ve closed my eyes!”

“Why?!”

“’cause I don’t want to look down!” the orange soldier whined. “Simmons!”

“If you guys are done with your declarations of love, then we have better things to do up here,” Tucker’s strained voice came from near Simmons’ feet. “Plus, it’s only a matter of time before Caboose gets distracted –“

“Oh, look! There’s Church!”

“For fuck’s sake, Caboose, we need to help these idiots before we move on to the next one!” The next sentence was directed at Simmons again: “Dude, wasn’t kidding about that warning. Get a fucking move on!”

“If the dirtbag has accepted his fate, I say we let him fall. Perhaps throw a rock as well to see which one will hit the bottom first. Look at this as a scientific experiment. Isn’t that tempting, Simmons?”

As much as it warmed his hear to know that their Sergeant had finally remembered one of his hobbies, it still did not change their current situation. “Uh. Not really at the moment, sir.” Simmons then looked down (or was it really up? Everything was confusing when you were upside down) at the orange soldier. “Grif, get a hold of yourself. Or rather – get a hold of me. Open your fucking eyes and actually do a bit of work yourself!”

“Well, how am I going to get this with me?” Grif asked him. While he had no hands left to gesture, it was clear that he meant the Meta’s weapon.

“You- Holy crap, Grif! Just forget it!”

“No way I’m leaving this behind! I fucking fought it! I’d die for it – I a _m_ dying for it!”

“You are not going to die, dumbass!” Simmons yelled back at him. “Just fucking grab my hand.”

The ice creaked again. Grif whined and Simmons heart nearly malfunctioned. By some fucking miracle, the orange soldier managed to maneuverer himself closer the cliff-wall. He pushed off from it with one of his feet, leaping towards Simmons with one hand still holding onto the weapon while the other was reached out towards his friend.

The leap was too much and the brute shot slipped out of the cliff. Grif let out a panicked yell, but Simmons was silent because his metal hand had closed around his friend’s wrist. He could feel gears in his shoulder scream in protest when they were suddenly carrying Grif in his full body armor – plus, Simmons realized, the idiot was still holding the weapon with his right hand.

“Alright. Pull up, pull up,” Simmons managed to get through his gritted teeth, and immediately the Blues got to work.

“Don’t you dare let fucking go, Simmons,” Grif told him but the threat did not work with the obvious fear in his voice. “I’ll fucking haunt you forever.”

“You could have cut down on those snack cakes.”

“And if they turned out to be my last meal? Totally worth it.”

Simmons wanted to correct him, but fuck, his shoulder hurt.  So he set his jaw, bit down on his lip, and suddenly there was solid ice brushing against the chin area of his helmet. The Blues kept pulling and Simmons did not let go, and a moment after Grif was pulled up safely as well.

For some seconds, the orange soldier just lay still, and Simmons did not dare to loosen his grip on him. The only indicator that Grif was still alive was how entire body shook quietly. “Holy shit,” he breathed out, and Simmons finally let go of him.

The Blues disappeared to deal with their own problems, and Simmons pulled himself up in a crouched position. Sarge walked over to kick Grif in the side. “Break time’s over, dirtbag.”

“You call that a break?!” Grif whined but slowly pushed himself up by the elbows. Simmons could see that he was still shaking.

“Didn’t see you doing any work,” Sarge snorted but did not kick him again.

Grif lifted his helmet so he was looking directly at Simmons who stared back but the visor hid his widened eyes.  Simmons knew that he was supposed to say something. It had been on the edge of his tongue ever since Donut had died.

That he was sorry. That he did care. That he had only been mad because he had been scared that something horribly would happen.

And it had. Just a few minutes ago Grif had almost died as well. Simmons had always loved to say ‘ _I told you so!’_ but this time he really wished that he was wrong. But maybe he had proven his point to Grif now – the orange soldier needed his friends in order to survive.

“Grif,” he said quietly.

The orange soldier had stopped shaking. “Yeah?”

“I-“ But this really was not the time. You know, with a crazy Freelancer bleeding out and a desperate injured AI behind them. There were better situations to come with an apology. “We really should check on the others.”

“Can’t let the Blues  go unsupervised – who knows how many more diabolical plans they can come up with? Already caused us quite the mess, those dirty bastards.”

Sometimes there leader really did have a point. Not about the diabolical plans, but this being caused by Blue Team problems. It really did make them quite the assholes. Red Team had literally been dragged into the mess – in which Grif then had proceeded to be dragged off a cliff. Out of the fire into the frying pan, right?

“You could go check on Agent Washington,” Simmons told Grif.

“Sure,” he snorted. “I’m sure I’m the guy he wants to see. Remember that guy who ran you over with a jeep? Well, that guy died and I just took his armor and I’m just here to stop the bleeding so please don’t kill me. You’re really going to send me over there?”

“Or you can try to stabilize the unit. Be my guest.”

“Meh. What about I let Tucker try to save the guy and I’ll just pretend to help.”

“That works too.”

It still surprised Simmons that it was Grif’s idea that had saved Agent Washington. Well, the orange soldier had not saved him directly, but it was his words that had inspired Simmons to come up with the solution. ‘ _Well, that guy died and I just took his armor’_ – Grif was rarely a genius on purpose.

The unit had died, and then the Reds had let the Blues take care of Washington since he was going to be their problem anyway.

Which left Simmons in the present: he was cold, Grif had to be fucking cold, and he really should say something.

Grif was sitting by himself, waiting. Well, they were all waiting. There really was not much else to do.

Simmons swallowed the spit in his mouth and walked over to him. “Can I- can I sit here?”

“No, this is my pile of snow. I’ve grown attached to it – find your own,” Grif snorted sarcastically.

Simmons took that as an invitation. The snow was cold, of course, and their armor could only help that much. He wondered if they were literally freezing their asses off now.

“Grif, I-“ The orange helmet turned towards him, giving him all of the attention, and fuck it – this was awkward and Simmons hated awkwardness. Not that he was skilled at avoiding it, but he could try. “Never mind,” he said quickly and dug his gloved fingers into the snow so he had somewhere to place them.

“Whatever, dude.” Grif shrugged and turned his glance to stare at the edge of the cliff.

Simmons’ mouth was dry. He bit his own tongue, winched, but decided to try again. “So… Long day, huh?”

“Yeah, Simmons,” Grif replied flatly. There was bitterness to his tone that revealed that he was annoyed. “Pretty long fucking day.”

Simmons should have taken that as a signal to stay quiet, but fuck it. Quiet sucked. Sometimes. Well, sometimes quiet could be nice, like when Grif had become just a bit too annoying, but quiet was not nice when you had watched the death of two teammates and then almost lost another one.

He blinked in surprise when Grif suddenly reached up and took off his helmet. Simmons stared. Stubbles revealed that Grif had not shaved for days now. There were dark circles under his eyes. The always messy hair now looked a bit greasy. All these things just showed how exhausted he felt – how they all felt. There was a bruise on his left cheekbone. It stood out on Simmons’ pale skin. Grif always wore bruises – a sign of their hard work and Sarge’s inpatience. Simmons could not remember a time where Grif had taken off his armor and undershirt and there had not been a single mark on his body. The scars did not help either. All these things just made Grif look so… worn.

Now when he focused on it, Simmons could see the last yellow and green splotches from where he had punched him on the chin. The sight immediately caused Simmons to cringe. He had not meant it like that. Grif had to know that, right?

Grif noticed how Simmons’ visor was set on him. “Take a fucking picture,” he snapped at him. “What, do I have something on my face?” He rolled his eyes, knowing how the scars always caused strange glances from strangers.

But Simmons was not a stranger. “No, I just… No. There isn’t.”

Grif raised an eyebrow but did not ask for an explanation. When he reached for a pocket in his armor, Simmons knew what was going to happen. A moment after, Grif had a lit cigarette between his lips. Simmons said nothing. Grif had almost died just an hour ago. He had earned this break.

The orange armored soldier blew out smoke and glanced at Simmons through the corner of his eye. Suddenly, so quickly that Simmons almost jumped a bit from surprise, he turned his head towards Simmons again. “Okay, dipshit. What’s going on?”

“What?”

“You’re seriously not going to complain? Simmons, I’m smoking. Right now. In your face.” To prove his point, he took a drag and exhaled it with his face up against Simmons’ visor. He did not pull away. “Holy fuck, are you dying?!”

No, but Grif had almost died. An hour ago. In front of Simmons. “No, I just- No, dumbass, do I look like I’m dying?!”

“No, but you’re acting really strange. Giving me the creeps.”

“I’m just… Really tired.”

“Long fucking day,” Grif said again, only a little snort this time.

Simmons nodded gravely. “Just glad how everything turned out.”

Grif stiffened a bit. The cigarette was between two of his gloved fingers. “You’re happy with it?” he asked slowly.

Simmons wondered if it was a trick. If he had let something slip and Grif had caught up on it. He cleared his throat. “I mean, yes. Shouldn’t we? The Meta is dead, Washington isn’t a threat, we all survived, uh, well, Church is gone, but that’s Blue Team problems, right?”

“So you’re happy I didn’t die?”

Something was wrong. Grif should sound smug about it. There should a twinkle in his eye and he should be hiding a smile as he tortured Simmons with it.

But Grif asked like he was an investigator, tone cold and serious. His eyes were set on Simmons and he could see that they were not happy.

Still, Grif had beaten him to it and Simmons was going to answer truthfully. “I- yes.”

Grif stared at him. And he kept staring. Simmons lowered his glance, crouching slightly together under the intense focus on him. Fuck. Had he screwed up? He expected Grif to laugh at him. But he did not.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Simmons.”

“What?!”

“You’re fucking happy that I survived? You goddamn jerk.”

“ _WHAT?!_ ” Simmons’ voice broke. He had not been this frustrated and confused since the time he had been forced to deal with Donut’s obliviousness when it came to the Meta. Fuck. He should not have thought about Donut…

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Grif snarled at him. He sounded angry - the bad sort of angry that meant that this was a real argument. Like the last one they had been having in the hologram chamber. “You fuck. Look, people wanting me dead? Fine. Used to that. Lived with Sarge for years. That’s normal. People wanting me alive? Great. Like, good for me. I like that. But you’re just fucking lying to me, and I’m sick of it, Simmons.”

“I’m not lying!”

Grif shuffled closer and shoved his hand against his chest plate. It was so forceful that Simmons almost fell backwards. “Yes, you are.”

“I’m not!” Simmons shrieked again. His throat hurt. When he had come up with all the scenarios of how his apology could go wrong, he had not imagined Grif refusing to believe him like this. It was frustrating. And it hurt. “I’m glad you’re alive, Grif,” he said slowly and hoped his voice did not sound wet.

Grif had narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

“Grif-“

“Just make up your fucking mind whether you want me dead or not. I mean – the fuck? You donate your organs to save my life, and then you sing a song about your longing for my death. And it’s a Disney song. You could at least have made it sound cool, but no. Then you _try_ to save me from falling off a cliff, big emphasis on the word ‘ _try_ ’ here, but you won’t even fucking look to see if I survived afterwards. What the fuck, Simmons?!” After his rant, Grif was breathing in deeply. When his angry expression faltered, he looked exhausted again.

Now it was Simmons’ turn to stare. He wanted to say something, but it felt like something had been tied around his throat. It hurt every time he tried to breathe. But Grif was demanding an answer, and Simmons tried – he opened his mouth even though he did not have the words ready, but Grif cut him off.

“Just… Just figure it out. It’s fucking annoying that you can’t take a stance.”

The worst thing was that he did have a point. Simmons had thought it would be hard to admit to Grif that he cared, but now he knew that admitting that there had been times where he had not cared was a lot harder to do. But it had been Sarge’s orders. Plus, Grif had been a giant asshole when they had first met. He was still an asshole now, but at least they were friends.

Plus, it was Sarge who had done most of it. Simmons had just joked along. And he had hoped the threats would eventually shape Grif into a real soldier. It was not like he had meant it.

Grif definitely had a point. Simmons sucked at taking stances.

“I don’t want you dead,” Simmons told Grif. He tried to make sure that his voice did not waver.

“What?” Grif asked, as if he could not hear him.

Simmons paused, found the courage he had been saving up for days now, and repeated it even louder. “I don’t want you dead!”

Finally, Grif cracked a smile. “Careful, Simmons. Sarge might hear you.”

“I’m  - I’m really sorry, Grif!” Simmons almost wailed. “That I wasn’t brave enough to look. And that I couldn’t save you.” He still remembered how it had felt when Grif’s hands slipped out of his own – when he realized that Grif’s last word would be his name – when he realized that he had let his best friend die.

Grif tilted his head, looking rather mortified. “Geez! Just – don’t fucking start to cry, okay? Big baby.” He then said quietly: “It’s alright. I probably could have eaten less snack cakes.”

Behind the visor Simmons smiled as well. He sniffed a bit before he said: “That’s what I’ve always told you.”

“Yeah. I guess you did.” Grif frowned and looked away. He hesitated. “And I guess you were kinda right back in Valhalla. About me being lucky. Like today. It was a real close one, huh?”

It felt natural for Simmons to agree immediately, but then he remembered what had actually happened back in Valhalla. How Grif had literally been shaking with anger. So he could avoid being gleeful this one time. “It was, but… It wasn’t just luck, Grif.”

“Are we talking about God again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe fate.”

“Fuck fate then. Or maybe not. Seems like fate is even worse at picking side than you were. You know, thank you for letting me live and all that, but cut me some slack.” Grif had lain down and was talking to the sky. Simmons hesitated for a second but then lowered himself down next to him. Sidewinder was still fucking cold, but he was not exactly freezing at the moment

Simmons sucked in air before saying, “But it can’t all be that, right? We still… I mean, back in Blood Gulch when Tex went crazy the first time, we- we promised to look after each other’s ass. We’re still doing that, right? I’ll do a better job next time, I swear.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Grif waved him off. “You pulled me up eventually.” He took another drag from his cigarette before continuing: “Deal’s still on, I guess. You certainly need it, nerd. Being hold captive by a crazy Freelancer, huh? You’re really counting on me to save your ass.”

“I should probably have joined you on that suicide trip.”

“Yeah, you should. Just – don’t do that again. It took real hard work to deal with him. You know I hate that.”

“Well, then you can try to stop being dragged off cliffs.”

“Oh, I am so done with that. Mortal peril isn’t really my thing.”

Simmons snorted. “Could have fooled me.”

Grif was quiet for a moment. The cigarette was placed in the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry about Donut by the way,” he then told Simmons with a low voice. “I guess I should have been there.”

No, he shouldn’t have. Simmons’ throat tightened when he remembered how Lopez had been the first to fall and then Donut… His lungs completely stopped working when he imagined Grif falling to the ground with a bullet wound in his helmet. Simmons was just so fucking glad that he had not been there.

Simmons swallowed his fear and instead joked: “Yeah, like you’d be much help.” However, it came out weak as the anxiety still clawed his stomach. He turned his head to the left and saw how the Blues were helping Washington on his feet. Simmons gulped. “So what do we do now when they’ve decided to keep him?”

Grif turned his head as well but his view was blocked by Simmons’ maroon helmet. He did not seem to mind. “I thought we’d already established that. Come on, nerd, keep up. I watch your ass, you watch mine.”

Simmons turned to look at him, but almost pulled back in surprise when he realized how close their faces suddenly were. Grif’s nose was almost touching his visor. “Plenty for me to watch, then,” he grinned.

“Careful with the jokes, Simmons. You might hurt my feelings,” Grif replied teasingly and rolled his eyes.

“You know, I didn’t make that song,” Simmons suddenly felt the urge to point out. “Sarge did. It isn’t mine. That ‘ _I just wish that Grif was dead_ ’-“

“Don’t fucking sing it.” Grif was scowling.

“Sorry! It’s just… It’s one of those songs you can’t just _say_ the title. And it’s catchy. Really.”

Grif sighed deeply. “I know,” he admitted. He took one last look at his cigarette before throwing it away. “Fuck, it’s cold.”

The snow below his head had started to melt. His black hair was wet and there was a snowflake on one of his eyelashes.

Simmons was glad he was wearing his helmet. Especially when he blushed after realizing he had been staring too much at his friend.

“Then put your helmet back on, dumbass.”

“Nah, I just got comfortable.” He had gone back to staring at the sky. It was probably where they would spot their help when it finally arrived. It had taken them quite some time now.

Simmons and Grif lay in the snow, and the maroon soldier was honestly surprised with the absence of Sarge. He had expected him to come over and yell at them to get moving even though there was nothing they could do it at the moment. Perhaps their Sergeant had decided that they had earned a break after all.

The silence was broken when Grif unconsciously began to hum. When he realized what he was doing, he yelled at Simmons: “Fuck it. You got it stuck in my head, you asshole.”

Simmons chuckled. “It is catchy.”

“Meh. So what were you going to tell me anyway? You kept cutting yourself off when you first invaded my snow pile.”

“Oh. Well, we actually went through that already.”

“What?”

“That don’t you ever fucking do that again, numbnut. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Grif grinned. “Wouldn’t want to break your heart,” he teased him.

“Well, I already gave you my original one. You can’t keep messing up my organs.”

“I’m still gonna smoke.”

“I know.”

Simmons breathed in deeply. The snow was fucking cold, but really, it was not that uncomfortable after all. The maroon soldier shifted a bit to get into a better position. As he did so, his hand accidently brushed against Grif’s. With his breath stuck in his throat, Simmons carefully looked down to see that his fingers were on top of Grif’s left hand. The one that had once belonged to Simmons, even though the armor hid it.

Grif did not shrug it off. Perhaps he could not feel it. The cold could numb one’s limbs. And Sidewinder was really cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 7 and 8 are my overall favorites, and it has been so fun writing these two chapters. Lot of fluff in this one. Hope you liked it. I’ve personally always wanted a scene where they had to drag Grif back to safety. Could have been fun to watch.  
> Again, thank you for your support! So many lovely comments on the last chapter! Makes my day!


	9. Red Alert: Blue Problems!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Grif-“ Simmons tried to cut in but Grif would not let him. This was bullshit. He was a draftee and there was no fucking way he should be a part of this. He had not signed up for anything. And while Simmons might have signed up for something, it should not be this. So maybe it was not exactly Red versus Blue anymore, but it did not change the fact that they were Red and they were Blue, and this was fucking Blue Team problems and Simmons should not have to take a bullet for their fuckup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in episode 20 of season 9 where we hear the real Grif calling Sarge to say “Hey, we’re taking fire out here!”. We never really see what they have been up to, so this is my version of it.

“I’m just saying it’s not our problem,” Grif told Simmons as they headed down an empty hallway. So far, so good. The mission still sucked, of course, but had not been shot at yet which was always something to appreciate. But the they had split up from the others – the new lady, Sarge, Washington and Caboose going for Church, and Tucker had gone to try to find a warthog on his own, promising to find Grif and Simmons later if he succeeded. That was fine. If the Blue wanted to act strong and independent, then let him. The problem with all of this (looking aside from the fact that this whole mission was bullshit) was that it meant that the Freelancers were elsewhere, so they could not kick these enemies’ asses for them if they ran into some of them.

Of course Simmons did not agree with him. So the cyborg could scold Grif for not taking care of himself (even though eating five snack cakes daily could not be a threat to the health ‘cause in that case they would not taste that delicious) but he failed to see how signing up for this mission was the real threat to their lives. “Hey, have you ever heard about a thing called responsibility?” Simmons snorted sarcastically, carefully keeping an eye out for any guards.

“Yeah, and that thing sucks. I’ve tried my best to avoid it. You know what responsibility leads to? Extra work.” Just the thought of it made him shudder. That earned him a scolding tilt of the helmet from Simmons, but, hey, this mission was seriously not in their job description and the Freelancer lady had denied him the chance to take a nap today.

“We can’t just ignore this.”

“Sure we can. The guy isn’t even on our team.” Since Simmons was not colorblind this should really have been an obvious fact. But oh no – the maroon soldier just wanted to play the noble hero along with Sarge. And now look what he had dragged Grif into.

“But the whole thing is due to us being sim soldiers. We aren’t really that different when it comes to that.”

They had reached the end of a hallway and they carefully opened the door before moving on. Their goal was to find a warthog, but with no clear map of where these idiots kept their vehicles, they were pretty much just walking around until they heard a vroom-vroom noise. Well, Simmons claimed he had a plan, but so far they were still just sneaking down empty hallways, but at least Grif could deal with that. Sneaking was better than running, after all.

“Would you stop being so fucking purple, Simmons?” Grif snorted as they rounded a corner. “It looks gross on you.”

“Oh, shut up. Look, even Sarge admitted this was the right thing to do.” Simmons had stopped to look at some signs at the wall. He took some seconds to read, then nodded to himself, and lead Grif down to, yay, another hallway. This was place a damn maze.

“Fuck you – he never did that. That crazy lady –“

“- Agent Carolina,” Simmons interrupted him rather rudely.

“-whatever, just scared the red pants off him. Don’t get me wrong, Simmons, I love seeing Sarge squirm under a bigger authority for perhaps the first time in his life. I would just have appreciated if she was not crazy enough to think that we can actually do this.”

“We’re doing fine,” Simmons said, waving his rifle at the sign with the word ‘Garage’ and an arrow on it.

“See, that may be caused by the lack of enemies.”

Simmons froze, obviously considering whether or not Grif had a point, but then he barked: “Don’t jinx it.”

“I’m just saying that there are better reasons to get yourself killed than because someone on top is yelling at you.”

“If that’s the case then why are you still here?” Simmons asked slyly. Immediately Grif remembered the speech Sarge had held the last time they had been convinced to help the Blues. This time it had been more yelling and less speech.

“Because someone has to watch your ass. Haven’t we gone through that already?” Grif replied and made sure to sound as annoyed as he felt. “So why are you here, Simmons?”

“You mean aside from Carolina yelling in our faces? I mean, technically, it is our problem. I mean we’re here because of the Freelancers, and this is another one of their messes.” Meaning they had other messes. Like, a giant pile of them. Grif was still not sure what Project Freelancer really had been up to, or why dead people weren’t dead, or why a man could be alive but also an AI, or why the fuck the Red Team had to be dragged into this, but one thing was sure – Freelancers were never good news.

And he hated the fact that they had been manipulated his life in the background. Grif had never been the owner of many things, and some of them may not exactly have been his own, but his life belonged to him and nobody should fuck with it. “Really, Simmons? That’s why we’re here?”

“Well, one of the reasons.” Simmons paused, gestured for Grif to be quiet, and then slowly opened the door to what should be the giant garage. After holding their breath, they realized the room was empty. As in no enemies. But also as in no fucking vehicles. And so their search continued as well as their bickering. “Why are we always discussing this?” Simmons asked as they stepped inside.

“Because we can never fucking agree on just one thing. We should make a list.” He held up his fingers as he began to count. “God, fate, fucking Freelancers, my incredible case of bad luck, that my test scores sucked, that _your_ test scores sucked –“

“Shut up.”

Grif knew Simmons could be embarrassed by his own failures, but seriously. They had all sucked at those tests. If not, they would not be here. “Come on, Simmons. You can’t fucking deny it. It’s why you’re-“

“ _Shut up_!” Simmons hissed while grabbing him by the arm and quickly dragged him behind one of the steel drawers that decorated the room.

Grif raised his head to see how the giant garage door slowly opened. Three warthogs drove in (yay) filled with enemies (whatever the opposite of yay was). The orange soldier turned towards the friend who had pulled him out of the enemies’ sight. “Oh.”

“Dumbass,” Simmons sighed while gripping his rifle tightly.

Grif took in a deep breath and listened to how the Command soldiers got off the jeep. Since Grif and Simmons were hiding with their back turned to the exit, there was no way the soldiers would not see them on their way out of here. “Okay. So what’s the plan?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“Why would I-?”Simmons began but he could literally see the raised eyebrow behind Grif’s visor. It was not like Simmons would ever follow one of Grif’s plan (even though they usually involved naps and snack breaks which was clearly a genius strategy). “Okay, fine. Uhm. I’ll sneak over there and make a distraction.”

“You? Why do you have to be the distraction?”

“Because you can’t get over there without tripping over your own damn feet, dumbass,” Simmons whispered back to him.

Grif then leaned closer to his helmet, as if he was about to deliver some important secrets. “Hey, Simmons? Word of advice? That’s a fucking stupid plan.”

“Well, what do you suggest, numbnut?” Simmons asked while nervously looking over the edge of their cover.

“I don’t know – perhaps not die? That’s always been my plan number one.”

“That’s not even –“

Simmons never had the chance to finish. While he and Grif had been very busy keeping their eyes on the newly arrived soldiers, they had forgotten that the door behind them was not locked. Now it swung open and the first thing the Command soldier saw was an orange and a maroon soldier crouched behind a drawer.

It was pretty clear that they did not exactly belong here.

“INTRUDERS!”

“Fuck!” Grif quickly aimed his rifle at him but Simmons was quicker.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed while shooting the soldier straight in the face before he could take a shot at them.

Unfortunately for the Red soldiers, their presence had now been revealed. Bullets flew over their heads, and they quickly backed up against the drawer. Grif shot the control panel next to the door, hoping it would somehow keep it locked. Seconds later they both peeked their heads over the edge to return fire.

“Hey, Simmons?” Through the deafening noise from the shouting, shooting and bullets hitting metal, Grif’s question managed to reach Simmons’ ears.

“What, Grif?”

“Good job being a distraction.”

“Fuck you.”

Grif squinted, fired a shot and managed to hit one of the assholes. He went to his knees with a pained yell, but another solider dragged him behind cover before Grif could finish him off. He snorted angrily. “I mean it. Look at us, attracting all the enemies. The others have it too easy.”

“We’re supposed to steal their warthogs.” Simmons’ voice was a pitch higher than normal because he knew that they were technically failing their mission right now. Still, a warthog was a warthog even if it had some bullet holes and bloodstains on it. So who cared if they ran into some trouble. This place was full of it.

“What about we start with not dying – then we can move onto car theft.” He crouched down to reload before adding: “If we still get yelled in the face after all this, I quit.”

“You say that all the time.”

“Well, yeah, but now I mean it. Look, Freelancers dragged us into this mess then it shouldn’t be our fucking problem to clean up after them.”

Simmons crouched down next to him just in time to avoid a bullet to the head. “So technically, the Freelancers did not drag you into this. Your incompetence at being a decent soldier did, dipshit.”

“I didn’t fucking sign up for this shit – I didn’t sign up for anything!” Grif shrieked for the hundredth time in his life and flinched when he could feel the drawer shake after the impact of a hellload of bullets.

“Can’t you save your complaining till after we’ve killed these guards?”

“I’m just saying that if I have to die for something, it shouldn’t have to be fucking Freelancers.”

Simmons carefully looked over the edge, but stayed next to him. “Well, what would you die for?” he asked in a more gentle tone as if he was truly curious. Grif frowned and wondered if this was a part of Sarge’s glorious plan to end his life.

“I don’t know. Sacrifice myself for snack cakes. An attempt at annoying Sarge gone wrong. Lopez finally snaps.” Grif blinked and lifted his rifle to fire blindly at the ashole soldiers who were somehow still alive. Some of them had to be dead now. Grif had managed to spot two guys on the floor and he did seriously not think they were napping. “Geez, Simmons, I prefer not to think about my inevitable death. That’s pretty damn gloomy, dude.”

“I didn’t say – Oh, fuck. Move, Grif!” He shoved him away when a grenade landed between them. They managed to leap in different directions towards safety before it exploded.

“Shit!” Grif tripped over the body of the douchebag guard who had alerted the others of their presence before scrambling behind a storage container. He took a second to check for any bullet holes in his body and sighed in relief when he found none.

“Suck it, whites!”

So Simmons was alive too. Great. One less thing to worry about. Still, Grif could not help but lean around the corner of container to see that the maroon moron using a metal desk from the mechanic’s corner as cover.

When Grif pulled back behind his cover, he realized to his horror that no longer was alone. One of the assholes had managed to get behind it as well, and he was now standing near the other end of the container with his rifle pointing at Grif.

With a yelp, Grif dove to the floor and narrowly missed the bullet. Before the jerk could aim at him again, Grif took some shots of his own and the guy fell over face first. Breathing in heavily, Grif could not believe his luck – especially not when he noticed the grenade attached to the soldier’s armor.

He immediately grabbed it and smiled smugly. He leaned around the container again to yell: “Hey, assholes! Catch!”

Grif was pretty proud of himself. The grenade landed in one of the warthogs the assholes had used as cover and when it exploded, it took out both the vehicle and three jerks.

“You dumbass!” Simmons shouted at him, somehow managing to sound loud even though there was quite the distance between them now. “We need the jeeps!”

“Oh, right.” So perhaps the thrown could have been better. If he had a stronger arm, the grenade could have landed behind the guys so the jeep could have been intact. “Where’s Donut when we need him?” Grif shouted his thought out loud.

“Dead, you dipshit,” Simmons called out.

Shit. Right. Well, fuck. Grif was quiet for a moment before admitting: “Oh, well that was a moodkiller.”

“Just keep firing!”

And so he did. But these guys were hard to hit and Grif had never had the best aim in the first place, and it was not like they had an endless amount of ammo (he had certainly not brought extra). “So this sucks. Can’t we just go somewhere else or something? Simmons, shouldn’t we call the others and tell them that they can’t possibly be busy right now –“ He looked over to gain eye-contact with his comrade and had expected an annoyed comment from him, but instead Grif almost gained a heart attack when he saw the maroon soldier fall over. “SIMMONS!”

Grif was not aware that he was running. He hated running but he also hated dead comrades, and sometimes you just needed prioritize. But he managed to surprise himself with his speed and only a few seconds later he was on his knees next to his friend. “Holy fuck, holy fuck.” His lungs hurt. Running sucked.

“Grif,” Simmons said but Grif would not hear it.

Simmons had managed to place himself with his back against the desk and he had both of his hands pressed against his chest. Fuck. Grif was no doctor but he knew that was a bad place to be hit. He pried Simmons’ hand away to search for the entry wound, but was surprised to see no hole and no blood. In fact, Simmons’ chest plate was unscratched.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Grif asked him. His heart still fucking hurt from seeing Simmons’ fall and if this was some fucked up joke, Simmons had lost the little sense of humor he had left.

“It’s in my arm, numbnut.” Simmons lifted his left arm and waved the hand slowly in front of his visor. Sure enough – there was the bullet hole. Grif could even see some of the wires and gears inside the mechanical limb. “I think it’s stuck.”

So Simmons did not have a bullet in the chest. He had been cradling his injured hand. Fucking moron. “You have got to be kidding me,” Grif said out lout, straightening up to stare Simmons down, but regretted the motion when a bullet almost hit his head. “Eep.”

Simmons reached up with his good arm and pulled him down behind the desk. “What were you thinking? You can’t just run without cover.”

“Are you seriously lecturing me right now, Simmons? _Seriously_?” Maybe he did have a point. In fact, it was a fucking miracle that Grif had not been hit on the way to Simmons. But what could he have done? Left the idiot alone?

“It’s not like you have a metal arm to take the blow,” Simmons snorted as he twisted and turned his hand, trying to get it to work properly again. “Though, that belly could take quite the punch.”

“So now is the time for fat jokes?”

“Just keep them busy,” Simmons told him. It did not sound like he was in pain, but the hand kept jerking in different directions as he was unable to fully control it. Every few seconds, electric sparks would appear from the bullet hole. Grif wondered if Simmons could manage to fix it or if Grif had to be the only one handling a weapon. Because in that case they were screwed.

“Hey, Simmons?”

“What?”

“I see sparks.”

“Keep your eyes on the enemy, dumbass,” Simmons said in a tone that made Grif believe he was rolling his eyes.

Grif peered over the edge to take a look of the remaining enemies. After dodging some bullets, Grif came to the conclusion that three of them were still alive. They stayed behind the warthogs, knowing Grif could not risk damaging them because of course Simmons just had to shout their plan out loud. Idiot. “This fucking blows,” Grif said when he realized he was about to run out of bullets. “Where the fuck are the others?” Crouching down, he decided it was time to let them know that they were being freaking badasses at the moment. He called Sarge’s channel. “Hey, we’re taking fire out here!” No reply. “And they fucking ignore us. Thanks a lot, Sarge. Dirty Blues, my ass,” he mumbled and stood up. “The fucks he gives about his own team…”

“Grif!” Simmons punched him in the back of his knee, causing Grif to fold over his leg. That hurt like hell, but hearing the bullet fly just over his helmet, almost grazing it, it was worth enduring.

“Are you trying to be a target cone?” Simmons asked him harshly, grabbing him by the arm and pushing him against the cover.

“Says the guy with a bullet in his arm.”

“At least I can take it.”

Grif looked at his rifle and wondered how many bullets he had left. Perhaps he could borrow Simmons’. Still, that did not fix the fact that he was not the best fighter and these fucktards had the home-field advantage. It was only a matter of time before reinforcement had to show up, and, fuck, Grif would rather not think about that.  “I fucking hate fighting.”

It seemed like the hand was finally fixed since Simmons was able to move it around with seemingly no problems. He turned his head to look at Grif. “Sucks to be a draftee then.”

He sighed. “Yeah, Simmons, it does.” He paused and listening to the silence. The assholes were not firing at them anymore. Perhaps they were running out of bullets as well. Or perhaps they were about to ambush them. Grif carefully looked over the edge but kept speaking to Simmons: “I know you are all into responsibilities and glory and all that. I’m just saying it won’t get you that promotion.”

“You don’t know that. We’re finally fighting real battles, Grif.” The maroon picked up his rifle and peered over the desk.

“Wait, am I supposed to be happy about that?”

“At least we’re not just part of an experiment,” Simmons told him rather sternly. “I mean, what we’re doing now counts as something.”

“And so what? This is Blue Team problems, and if I’ve learned just one thing in the military, which is probably the case, then it is the fact that we are Red.”

Simmons let out a dry chuckle. “That’s just sad. The one thing they actually manage to teach you is basically a lie.”

“Whatever. Look, what I’m saying is that we shouldn’t be here.”

“But we _are_ here, Grif,” Simmons reminded him rather harshly and tightened his grip on his rifle. “And we’re doing fine.”

“ _’Fine’_? Simmons, you have a hole in your body. And don’t pull that crap with you can take it. You shouldn’t have to.”

“Grif-“ Simmons tried to cut in but Grif would not let him. This was bullshit. He was a draftee and there was no fucking way he should be a part of this. He had not signed up for anything. And while Simmons might have signed up for something, it should not be this. So maybe it was not exactly Red versus Blue anymore, but it did not change the fact that they were Red and they were Blue, and this was fucking Blue Team problems and Simmons should not have to take a bullet for their fuckup. Simmons should not take a bullet for anything, Grif then corrected himself and cursed their situation once more.

“No, seriously, Simmons. Admit that this is the Blues’ fault –“

Now it was Grif’s turn to be cut off. Not by Simmons but by the sound of someone firing a hellload of bullets. Grif looked at Simmons. Well, they had not been hit, so what the hell?

“Hey, what the fuck are you two doing?” Tucker’s voice called out and sure enough, the Blue soldier walked out between the two remaining warthog. Grif would have snorted had he had not been so relieved that he was not about to die – at least not in the next few minutes. But it was still such a typical dirty Blue move to let the Reds do all the hard work and then roll in to take care of the few remaining enemies and look like a fucking hero. The Blues always liked making things dramatic.

“Having a picnic,” Grif called back sarcastically. “What do you think?”

As the two Reds left their cover to walk closer, Tucker leaned against one of the jeeps. “Well, I just heard you two talking about holes and who should be taking it, bow-chicka bow-wow by the way, so I guess you’ve been busy.”

Grif grumbled something under his breath as he climbed into the nearest jeep. “Fuck you, Blue,” he said when he had his hands on the wheel.

Simmons seemed to agree with him. “Yeah, you guys suck.”

“Hah – speak for yourself. Or, well, apparently Simmons won’t be the one taking it this time,” Tucker said smugly, staring directly at Grif’s visor. A challenge, eh? Well, fuck him.

Grif flipped him the finger as the Blue chuckled at his own joke. “Hope you had a good laugh, asshole. You’re driving with Simmons.”

Tucker straightened out his back and crossed his arms. He did not look threatened. “Way to torture your boyfriend, Grif.”

“Two things wrong with that. First of all – he’s not my boyfriend. Second of all – he’s not the one getting tortured. Enjoy the ride, Blue.” Grif gave them both a short nod, stepped on the pedal and drove out of the garage as quickly as possible before they could get a word in.

“Hey, what do you mean by that?” Tucker called after him, but Grif was already out of hearing range. Feeling slightly unnerved by the threat, Tucker turned to Simmons who had already climbed into the driver’s seat. “Okay, seriously, what did he mean by that?” he asked cautiously as he entered the jeep as well.

The Red soldier looked rather offended. “Don’t look at me like that. You should count yourself lucky. Grif drives like a maniac. I’ll make sure we get to the others in one piece.” He looked over his shoulder before leaving the place as well. Slowly.

“Uh, you do realize we’re in a hurry, right?”

Simmons’ tightened his grip on the wheel. “Hey, these things have no seatbelts, and you don’t want to know how it feels to be thrown out of a driving warthog.” He almost shuddered when he thought back of the time Grif and Sarge had rescued him from the Meta. It had taken him months before he felt remotely comfortable in a jeep again.

Apparently, Tucker had never experience such a traumatic ride before. “You have got to be kidding me, dude.”

“Stop being a backseat driver!”

Tucker was quiet for a few seconds, but still managed to annoy Simmons by leaning closer to him. It took him a moment before he realized he was trying to get a look at his left hand. “Uh, I don’t want you to panic and drive into a ditch or anything, but I think you have been shot.”

“Oh, this? It’s fine. Just don’t touch it – there are sparks.”

“Yeah, I’m not gotta ask about that.”

“Good.” Simmons appreciated the silence. Then he could focus on his driving.

Unfortunately for him, Tucker was a living distraction. “Wait. One question. So does this mean Grif is the one taking it?”

“Fuck you.” Being fed up by the Blue’s perverted humor (which honestly made him feel weirdly uncomfortable. Just another reason the hate the Blues) Simmons turned on the radio. He took in a deep breath and enjoyed it. Sometimes classical music was the only thing that could save the moment.

“What the fuck is this shit?!”

So of course the Blues had never heard of it. “I’m surrounded by barbarians,” Simmons muttered under his breath and turned the volume up for the Bolivian Orchestral Mash-Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like how I have all the chapters planned out, yet new elements keep appearing. Tucker was not originally meant to be a part of this chapter but when my mind made up with the dirty joke I knew I had to have Tucker there to say it out loud.   
> It was quite fun to include some action in this one. We can’t just let the idiots stand around talking all day, can we? Even though that is what they seem to do best.  
> Thank you so much for your support :D All kudos and comments so far have made me smile and only made my inspiration for this story even bigger. Not so many chapters left now!


	10. Family Values (Discipline)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons would usually not talk about his childhood. It was a thing to avoid because there were always nicer things to talk about. Like wars or sickness or removal of teeth – you know, less painful stuff. But Grif had been surprisingly open so far, and Simmons did not want to give any less. “I didn’t really have a lot of friends growing up.”  
> “What a shocker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set somewhat between episode 19 and 20 in season 10. Or perhaps just in episode 20. I’m not completely sure. Just – it’s while Church and Carolina go inside after the Director, okay? No exact numbers needed (Hey, details matter! – Shut up, Simmons!)

“You have got to be kidding me.” Grif’s reaction was pretty much the same as Simmons’ had been. The obvious disbelief followed by a hint of pity. It was not because they knew her well, but such a reveal could not help but cause a tiny feeling of sympathy.

Simmons nodded and was rather proud that he was for once the one to bring Grif the newest gossip. “Nope, I heard the others talk about it.”

“Well, shit.” Grif paused and tilted his helmet towards the sky. The pair was sitting outside the storage facility since their job was obviously done by this point. Carolina and Epsilon were finally confronting the Director, and Grif had dragged Simmons away from Sarge and Donut and the Blues to take a well-deserved break. The orange soldier had his so-called battle sores to nurse, so they had not walked far. “Wow, Blue Team are all fucked up.” While the statement was harsh, Grif’s voice revealed that he almost felt bad for them. Which said a lot about the situation, considering Grif’s normal lack of empathy.

But while they did not know a lot about Carolina, Simmons knew enough to correct his friend: “Technically, she isn’t a Blue.”

Grif turned his helmet to face him. “Does she look Red to you, Simmons?” he asked dryly.

“Good point,” Simmons admitted. After a few seconds, he could not help but check on Grif’s view on life. “You do know that the world isn’t just Red versus Blue?”

“Right.” Grif said the word too slowly to truly mean it. “You know what, Simmons? Ever since I entered the military it seems pretty clear the world is divided into Red and Blue and assholes.”

“So you’re saying I’m not an asshole?” Simmons asked perhaps a bit too smugly, but at least his helmet hid his smile.

Unfortunately, Grif seemed to have caught up on it. “Are you fishing for something, Simmons?”

“Wha – no. We’re not even – we were talking about Agent Carolina!”

Grif nodded. “And her douchebag father. Seriously, I know he’s the biggest cockbite, fuck him by the way, but it still kinda sucks for her.” He paused for a few minutes, his visor revealing none of his thoughts, before he casually added: “Heh, not like I’m the one to talk.”

Simmons stared at him with widened eyes. He almost did not dare to move in fear of scaring Grif away from the subject. It was not often that the orange soldier opened up about his past, but now when it finally happened, Simmons had no idea of how to start the conversation. Idiot. “Oh,” he finally managed to say, and immediately began scolding himself for giving Grif such a lame answer. How could he be crossing his fingers for Grif to finally open up when he began the conversation with a stupid ‘oh’?

Luckily Grif decided to continue speaking his thoughts. “Never knew him. Now that’s just a plot-twist waiting to happen,” he said lightly, but his voice was too strained for it to sound like a heartfelt joke. “Nah, dude doesn’t know I exist. Probably lucked out. Mother always said he was an asshole.” He paused and searched for his pack of cigarettes. He fiddled with the package to keep his hands busy. “Kai and I don’t have the same father – you’d probably figured that out by now. Doesn’t change anything. Still my annoying baby sister.” Simmons caught up on the defensive tone in Grif’s voice and he wondered how many times he had said it before.

Simmons knew he could not expect Grif to give something without getting something in return, so he said, “I, uh, never had any siblings.”

“Right.” Grif sounded like he believed it. “Saved yourself a headache there.” He took off his helmet but was yet to open his pack. He let out a quiet snicker. “I mean, Blood Gulch have to be fucked by now. Forget what a war can do to an area – you haven’t seen my sister’s parties.”

There was a lump in Simmons’  throat. “Grif –“ He cut himself off. It was like the words would not leave his lips.

Grif did not seem to have heard him. “She got that from her father. Damn, that dude outshined the circus. I can’t remember much, but the others told stories. He didn’t stick around. There came other guys, but after my mother got the beard, that crowd kinda disappeared. Not the actual audience – they were fucking digging it.”

If Grif had not caught up on what would have been Simmons’ horrible attempt at grief counselling, it meant the maroon soldier had the chance to stray away from the hurtful subjects. “So did you ever perform?” He took off his own helmet as well so Grif should not feel naked.

“What the fuck do you think, Simmons?”

To be honest, Simmons did have a hard time imaging Grif in the spotlight. “I don’t know. Obviously not the trapezes – man, that could have gotten wrong. But, I guess you have some skill. I mean, you would be brilliant at competitive eating. Couldn’t you have been the Oreo guy or something? Shown off how many you could stuff in your mouth.”

Grif bit the inside of his cheek and his distant stare revealed he was thinking about Simmons’ suggestion. “Huh. That’s not a bad idea. If I had shown her that then maybe…” He suddenly trailed off and turned his head but not before Simmons managed to see a glimpse of a darkened expression. Grif was quiet as he struggled to light his cigarette. “I apparently look like my father – the asshole. So my mother was never really happy to see my face.” He took a drag. “But she loved Kai. You know, being girl and wearing dresses and pink and all that. She actually said goodbye her. Well, it was a big fat lie about a sale at a bakery in another town and she needed her suitcase to carry all the extra pretzels, but the thought counts. I just got a note with the truth.”

Ouch. Simmons imagined coming home to find such a note on the kitchen table and then decided not to put himself in that imaginary scenario again. “That sucked.”

“Yeah,” Grif said with a cigarette in the corner of his lips. “But she didn’t want us, we didn’t want her, at least I didn’t, and things worked out. Eventually. Then came the draft and we were fucked over again, but…” He tilted his head to look straight at Simmons. There was something in his eyes he could not read. Not even in the one that had once belonged to himself. “You know. Could have gone worse.”

“Right.” Simmons nodded.

“Your turn,” Grif said quickly and smirked at his surprised reaction. “Really, Simmons? You thought I would give away all my embarrassing secrets without expecting something in return?”

“They’re not embarrassing,” Simmons said quickly. Perhaps he was not the best person to give motivational speeches because he knew that one’s childhood could be both pain- and shameful. But of course that was just his own. Grif was different and he should not feel bad about being born under difficult circumstances. “They’re just – our past.”

“Right,” Grif snorted with a roll of his eyes. He did obviously not believe Simmons’ words, and he quickly moved on to ask: “So what are your secrets, nerd?”

“Uh.” Simmons would usually not talk about his childhood. It was a thing to avoid because there were always nicer things to talk about. Like wars or sickness or removal of teeth – you know, less painful stuff. But Grif had been surprisingly open so far, and Simmons did not want to give any less. “I didn’t really have a lot of friends growing up.”

“What a shocker.”

“Hey,” Simmons said rather offended and crossed his arms to soothe himself.

“Sorry,” Grif said with a careless shrug. “Continue your heartfelt revelations.”

“I, uhm, wasn’t really good at sports.”

“You don’t say.”

Simmons was very well aware that he was only stating the obvious. Grif and everyone else knew this already because Simmons was a nerd and no matter how much he tried, he could not hide that. And when people knew you were a nerd, they would figure out the rest. “Uhm, I actually played for the women’s team in high school,” he finally dared to reveal.

“You’re kidding me.” For once Grif sounded a bit shocked, but the short laugh afterwards made Simmons wish he had never said it.

“Oh, shut up! Your mother had a beard!” the maroon soldier said quickly to defend himself.

Had he meant to offend, it had not worked. Grif merely shrugged. “Yeah, and it looked good on her. So did you have to wear their uniforms too?”

“You’re a dick.”

“No, seriously. You’re hopeless at sports. And women. What the fuck were you doing on their team?”

Simmons did not have a cigarette to play with, so he looked away and wringed his hands. He cleared his throat. “My father thought I should join.”

“Your father wanted you to join the women’s team?” Grif raised an eyebrow in wonder.

“Yes! Wait, no. He wanted me to join the boys’ team, but I, uh, didn’t make it in.”

“Wow.”

“Shut up. They had some really high standards, okay?” Simmons then muttered under his breath: “No average person could ever jump that high. Hah, I bet that didn’t even count in the diversity of height.”

Grif let out a small sigh and corrected himself. “I meant: wow, your dad is a douchebag.”

“Oh.” Simmons looked at the ground. It felt weird to hear the words being said out loud. “Yeah, I guess he is. I always wanted to be a mathlete. But he never really supported my hobbies. He wanted me to-“ He cut himself off because he was unsure of how to explain it. “He was not home much but, well, he had his opinions. About my hobbies. And he… I wasn’t really the kind of son he wanted.”

Grif was staring at him with a strange look in his eyes. It took a while for Simmons to recognize it as pity. It felt weirdly wrong to gain such empathy from the orange soldier. “Look, Simmons, I know your dad was an asshole.”

“You… you do?”

He shrugged like it was an obvious thing, and for a moment Simmons feared if this was something the others talked about. Which it couldn’t be since he never brought it up and how could they ever had gained that knowledge by themselves? His rant of thoughts was cut off by Grif when he spoke: “Look, if you want Sarge as the replacement, the original one must have sucked bad.”

“Yeah… I think - I think he is the reason why I signed up. To make him proud. Or – or prove him wrong.”

“You did,” Grif said out of nowhere. Simmons gave him a strange look and the orange soldier had to explain himself. “Prove him wrong. Don’t get me fucking wrong – you’re still a giant nerd. But you’re soldier and you’re still alive, and that gotta count. And look – take a tip from the Champion of Not-Giving-A-Fuck. Don’t try to make assholes proud. That’s just wasted work, which is the worst kind of work, just above manual labor.”

Simmons grinned because this was something only Grif would say – though, it was also unlike Grif to give advice like these. Strange day. “Thanks, Grif.” He tilted his head to stare at the sun. It was good to feel it against his human skin. He had to be careful though – too long out here and he could get burnt. And knowing him and Grif, they could stay like this for a while. Yet, this conversation felt different from ther usual bickering. “Are we having a moment?”

“God, I hope not. Those things are awkward as fuck.”

Simmons breathed in through his nose. “Yeah.”

Grif turned his head to stare at him with narrowed eyes. “And look – you tell anyone about my past and feelings and shit, I’ll tell everybody you were on the girls’ team and they beat you up.”

“How did you-?”

Grif sighed loudly and his eyes turned towards the sky. “Seriously, Simmons?”

The maroon soldier could not hold back a little sniff. “They were very well-trained.” Clearing his throat, he managed to compose himself. “And you’re the one to talk. You just got your ass kicked by a whole room of chicks.”

“Robot chicks. Very mean robot chicks,” Grif corrected him and waved his cigarette at him. “There’s a difference, Simmons.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you won’t be able to walk normally for days.”

“Good thing I never wanted kids in the first place. There’s too much crazy in my family for me to want to pass it on. Plus I had my share of fatherhood when I had to look after Kai.” He snorted rather harshly, but it seemed to be directed at himself. “And you’ve seen how that went.”

“I think you did good, Grif,” Simmons said slowly and meant any word. If he had been forced to take care of a younger sibling, he would have fucked up bad. Hell, he had not even managed to make a proper man out of himself.

“Yeah? That’s just because we both have parents so shitty that everything else is fantastic in comparison.”

Simmons looked away. He did not want to agree or disagree with Grif’s last statement. He did not even want to think further about it. So he did the natural thing and tried to steer off the path that were currently heading towards. “How old were you when she left?”

“16.” Grif looked at what was left of his cigarette. “Pretty cool in the beginning. Did a lot of crazy stuff.” His expression darkened again and he raised his shoulders slightly as if he was taking a defensive stance. Simmons recognized it, he must have looked like that plenty of times before, and understood that Grif did not want to talk about it. Grif dropped his burn-out cigarette and opened his package again. “Want one?”

“Wha – no! Why would you even ask that?!” Simmons shrieked to play along, but he knew that they were changing subject and Grif knew it as well, and to be honest they were both happy with it. This subject was one of their more popular ones and it could take a while before they would touch upon the sore topics again.

“Duh, you have metal lungs, dude. It’s not like you can get cancer.”

“I’ll just clog them, numbnuts! Plus it’s a matter of principle. I don’t understand why you keep smoking them.”

Grif flicked his cigarette a bit too close to Simmons just to provoke. Dumbass. But today Simmons would take it. “Matter of habit.”

Simmons would tell him that it was a bad excuse, but that should be obvious already. And he doubted that Grif would even mind what he had to say about it. Grif was like that. There was a reason why he still smoked after so many years with Simmons and his well-meaning attempts to make him quit. Sometimes Simmons wondered why he was still trying. But this topic was better than their past, so Simmons asked: “How old were you when you started smoking?”

“16.” So Simmons had a theory. It was not a complicated one – Grif had mentioned that age twice now and it should have been obvious to everyone – and he would not say it out loud. But it was still a theory that could explain why Grif still held onto his cigarettes. Yet, for some weird reason, it only made Simmons more determined to make him quit. But of course Grif was not going to make it easy for him. “So it’s way too late to change me now, Simmons.”

“You know I’ll keep trying.”

Grif grinned and leaned closer to blow smoke in his face. The maroon soldier coughed which only caused his smile to widen. He leaned back and said, “On the plus side: none of our parents began a maniac project which resulted in us having to kill them.”

Simmons nodded in agreement. “Some things are worth appreciating.”

“So what do we do now? Once they are finished with their business, what about us?”

That was a good question so of course Simmons had thought about it. Too bad he had no real answer. “I don’t know.”

“Do you think we’re going home?” Simmons knew Grif well enough to notice the hopefulness in his voice.

“Maybe. Wherever that is.”

Grif was quiet and looked around to see if Sarge and Donut and the Blues were nearby, but they could not hear their voices (and they were always loud) which meant they were still alone out here. Not like they did not deserve this break, but Donut had a habit of showing up when he was not supposed to (though, Simmons could not help but feel glad that Donut had showed up unexpectedly once again and proven that he was alive).

When he had decided that they still had their privacy, Grif leaned back and said: “You know, I get it if you want to head back to flip your dad the finger, but if you need a couch, I still have that shitty apartment in Honolulu.” Grif suddenly frowned and pulled his head back. “Or, well, I better damn well have. I don’t know if Kai remembered to…” He trailed off, his frown growing even bigger, and his eyes flickered when he began a new sentence. “Hey, if we’re heading home, they better drop by Blood Gulch so we can pick her up.”

 “Grif.”

“What, Simmons?” Grif’s voice was hard and cold, and his glance matched it.

Simmons dodged his eyes but he could not help but say it out loud this time. “It’s just… If Kai is listed as KIA it’s going to be difficult.”

“You mean they might have spelled her name wrong?”

The maroon soldier wrung his hands and wished that someone could else say this to Grif. No, he did not wish that, because the others would fuck it up. They would not care, and if there was one thing you had to be gentle about when to came to Grif it was his sister. Simmons took in a deep breath and decided that he had to do this. “No. Look, if they believe she is dead –“

“Which she isn’t.”

“Lopez said –“

“-claimed.”

Simmons’ throat was dry. “Lopez claimed he had –“ He wrung his hands tightly when he tried to find the right words, and with his metal hand it was quite painful. He winched. “-secured the entire Blood Gulch.”

Grif had crossed his arms. “So? You don’t know that. You don’t speak Spanish.”

“Grif.”

“No. Look, just – you don’t know my sister, okay? I do, and I’m fucking telling you there’s no way she’s dead.” Grif looked both sad and mad and tired, and Simmons wanted to hug him. Which he could not. Right? Especially now when Grif managed to look so distressed – it would just be awkward and make things worse.

So he tried to explain himself. “I’m just-“

“You know what you’re doing?” Grif straightened out his back to stare him down. “You’re ruining the moment we were having – no, wait, the one we weren’t having ‘cause I don’t do them. You’re ruining a non-existing moment! No fucking way I’ll let you sleep on my couch.”

So Grif was a work in progress. It had taken years before Simmons had stopped hating him. It had taken even more years for them to become… well, whatever they were now. Simmons had spent years trying to convince Grif to quit smoking. And to cut down on the snack cakes. And to shower more often. And to at least make a fake attempt when Sarge had them running training courses.

He could spend some more years trying to help Grif come to term with this. “I… Sorry.”

Grif huffed but looked rather satisfied with the apology. A bit surprised, too. “Yeah, you better be. And when Kai shows up, you owe me 50 bucks.”

Simmons did not know what else to do than to nod. “I can help you track her down, if you want to,” he offered carefully. “If we ask enough question, they have to at least check it out.”

Grif visibly relaxed; his expression softened and his shoulder fell back in place. Simmons found that he could breathe easier. “Alright, you can have the couch again,” Grif told him with a sly smile, but then he suddenly froze. “Actually, uh, I kinda use the couch as my bed. So unless you’re up to sharing it…” He laughed, and Simmons chuckled as well because of course this was something meant to be funny. When the laughter died, Grif tilted his head and shrugged. “Meh, I guess we’ll figure it out. It’s not like we have to plan it now. There’s still a long fucking way to Honolulu.”

 Simmons smiled. “Are we talking physically or metaphorically?”

“Oh my god, you are ruining the not-a-moment again!”

“Because if we are talking about distance, we have to measure it in lightyears-“

“Shut up, Simmons!” Grif yelled and Simmons was laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tragic backstories! Tragic backstories for everyone! But fluff! So much fluff!  
> I’m really excited for the next chapter – it was one of my original ideas and almost got a story of its own before I decided I would make a collection of one-shots.  
> Also, 50 kudos?! Thank you so much!


	11. Phantom Pain-In-The-Ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons had the words stuck in his throat and it took some time before he dared to say: “Grif and Caboose did not answer their radios.”  
> “Their helmets could have taken damage during the crash,” Wash explained. He looked shortly at Simmons before turning his visor towards Tucker. “Or they could still be unconscious.” At least he did not mention the third option; the one that had become a whisper in the back of Simmons’ brain. He forced himself to ignore it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between season 10 and 11. It’s basically my version of their crash on Chorus.

Simmons woke up with smoke in his eyes. It was not the gentlest way to wake him up, but considering the fact he had lived in the Red Base for years, there were crueler methods. Like Grif slamming a pillow into his stomach. Or Sarge kicking Grif in the side to get him moving. Or Donut suddenly screaming in their ears that it was a lovely morning and they had to get up to take it all in.

Simmons woke up in a wreckage. Some of the extra features Sarge had installed in him informed him that the temperature was rising to his left, and when he looked, he saw fire. Well, shit. Pushing himself up by his elbows, he realized he had been sleeping just outside the ship. He craned his neck to get a better look. So technically, he had been sleeping just outside half of the ship. The other half was gone. All this was caused by a crash, presumably. Oh, so that was why that alarm had been ringing. Perhaps he should not have installed those updates…

Simmons woke up alone. His mouth felt dry so he tried to swallow some spit. He stretched out all his limbs to test them. His metal arm was slightly dented, but he could fix that. He swallowed again. It made sense that his friends were not here. He had not been with them on the ship. It was only natural they would not be right next to him after the crash.

“Uhm, guys?” He struggled to raise his voice into a shout. “Hello?”

The first person he found was dead. It was a UNSC worker whose white armor had been impaled by a metal beam. The sight of blood made his stomach jump. As he walked further into the carnage, there were more dead people. But their armor was white. Simmons forced himself to focus that color. White became a good sight. That meant it was not red or orange or grey or any shade of blue.

“Anyone?”

“Simmons?”

He knew he should be happy to see anyone alive, but Simmons could not help but flinch when Wash stepped rounded a corner and showed himself. But he probably did not see Simmons’ reaction and it was not like he could help it. There were memories. Some that Wash had created.

Simmons had to find his voice somewhere deep in his stomach. “Uh, hi?”

“See, what did I tell you? The Reds aren’t that easy to get rid of. Trust me, we’ve tried.” Of course Tucker was with Wash. His presence caused Simmons to relax for a second, but then he remembered their current situation.

“Have you seen any of the others?” Simmons asked rather quickly, feeling hope swell inside his chest.

Tucker hesitated for just a second, but Simmons noticed it. Fuck it. “We’re calling that a work in progress. Right, Wash?”

“If we survived –“

“Which we obviously did, dude,” Tucker cut in. His hand was hovering above his sword, but he never did more than clench and unclench his fist. He looked as restless as Simmons felt.

Wash looked shortly at Tucker before continuing: “-there’s a chance the others did as well.”

“More than a chance,” Tucker snorted. “Look, I’m telling you, we’ve survived worse than this. The others are alive and we just need to find them.”

Wash fucking hesitated and Simmons hated him for it. “Right,” the Freelancer finally said.

“So what happened?” Simmons asked because obviously a few harmless but helpful updates could not be the cause of this wreckage. Right?

“Hate to break it to you but we crashed,” Tucker told him dryly as they began their search.

“Thanks.” Simmons narrowed his eyes and kept a tight grip on his rifle. “Hadn’t noticed that.”

“Tucker, where did you last see Caboose?” Wash cut in with his stern and focused voice, almost ignoring Simmons entirely.

The red soldier took a step backwards, looking from Wash to Tucker to Grif who was not there, fuck it, and then back to Wash.

Tucker shrugged. “I don’t know. He wasn’t with me ‘cause I didn’t have a headache until after we crashed.”

“I think I saw him near our appointed quarters,” Wash told them and gestured for them to follow. “We should start there.”

The Blues (because even though Wash was technically a Freelancer, he’s still on the Blues’ team and they all knew it) had already taken three steps forward when Simmons called out from behind them: “But what about Grif? And Sarge?”

Wash’s expression was hidden by his visor but even if he was not wearing his helmet, Simmons doubted he would have been able to read his thoughts. “Do you know their last known location?”

Simmons had not been with Sarge since this was one of the few opportunities they had to actually be at a safe distance from their leader. And Simmons had not been with Grif because they had been fighting again. He had brought up Kai and Grif had snapped and their argument had ended with: “You know what? You suck, Simmons. You suck and your thoughts suck and your stupid know-it-all attitude suck, so why don’t you go suck somewhere else?”

Then Grif had stormed out of the room and Simmons had left as well.

Fuck.

“I… I don’t,” Simmons finally revealed and he was staring at Wash.

Tucker stepped between them with a light shrug. “Maybe they’ve found each other and are looking for us.”

 “Maybe,” Wash said. “We could split up to cover a larger area.”

Simmons tried to figure out what the Freelancer wanted. As always Simmons found himself unable to read him. On one hand, if he was away from Washington he could relax slightly more, but on the other hand it had become very painful to walk among the dead alone. And what if he found Sarge or Grif and they were injured or… As much as he hated it, Simmons preferred to walk near the person who actually seemed to have an idea of what to do.

“No, I’ll… I’ll stay with you for now.”

“Whatever,” Tucker cut in, almost jumping on the spot where he was standing. It was clear that he wanted to get a move on. “Let’s just find them before we take too long and they declare us dead.”

They passed a lot of white and red. So much red that it clung to their boots and left tracks behind them. “Shit,” Tucker muttered quietly and Simmons mentally agreed.

Sometimes Wash looked over his shoulder to check on them. The blood did not seem to mind him. At some point he kneeled down next to a UNSC soldier that was still moving when they found him. He died, however, before he could answer Wash’s questions. “Damnit,” the Freelancer swore and let go of the body.

“Why don’t we just try to call them on their radios?” Tucker suggested.

“That’s… a really good idea, actually,” Wash had to admit.

Simmons quietly agreed with him. “Why didn’t you suggest that before?!”

“Why didn’t you?” Tucker gave back. “Plus, it’s much more dramatic running around shouting their names.”

“And you Blues love your drama.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Simmons did not have the chance to answer, since Wash called out with a loud voice: “This is Agent Washington looking for any survivors from –“

He did not even have the chance to finish before he was cut off by static. It lasted for a while before Carolina’s voice came through. “Wash?”

“Carolina!” The blue Freelancer sounded honestly happy. Simmons’ stomach twisted. He would like to see some red that for once was not blood.

“Have you located any of the others?”

“Tucker and Simmons are with me. No sign of Caboose, Sarge or Grif.”

“Simmons!” Sarge’s gruff voice entered the channel and Simmons could have shouted with joy. There was still hope for the Red Team. “Have you let yourself be outnumbered by the Blues?”

If this was Sarge’s way of saying he was happy to see that he was alive, Simmons would take it. Just the sound of his leader’s voice was comforting at the moment. “Uh, there was a crash, sir?”

“Unacceptable! I demand to be escorted for the Red Team to unite so a meeting can begin where we will promptly discuss the various reasons Grif has caused this to happen for then to decide his punishment.”

There was a strange twinge in Simmons’ stomach. He did not have the time to think about it further, as Epsilon took over the radio: “Yeah, if Red Team could come and pick up him up, that would be great.” The AI sounded strained, and Simmons guessed his leader had not been the most cooperative person.

“What is your position?” Carolina asked with a voice that immediately prompted for Simmons to answer. If he could. Which he couldn’t.

Tucker gave it a try. “A burning hallway.”

“You need to be more specific.”

“Uh, there’s a dead white dude on the floor.”

It sounded like Carolina was about to answer, but Sarge cut him off. “Hmm. That must be our hallway. Are  you hiding from us?”

From what Simmons had seen so far, there were a lot of dead people in white armor everywhere. “I don’t think that’s how it works, Sir.”

“Are you sure?” There sounded a gunshot, and Simmons had just begun to worry when Sarge continued: “Does your dead guy have a bullet in his forehead?”

“Now that’s just disrespectful,” Epsilon cut in. “You could at least have taken off his helmet first. Then you could put it on afterwards and nobody would know.”

“Epsilon,” Carolina growled, sounding less than happy with their way of handling the bodies.

“What? What they can’t see can’t hurt them. And these guys aren’t really seeing anything anymore.”

“Okay, nobody touches the bodies,” Wash said with a sigh at the end of his sentence.

Tucker tilted his helmet. “Does that mean we won’t have to bury them?”

“ _Tucker_.”

“I’m just saying it would require a lot of digging!”

“This sign says we’re at the infirmary,” Simmons forced himself to interrupt and gestured towards what was left of the worn letters on the wall.

“We’ll come to you,” Carolina announced shortly and then the radio went quiet.

Tucker was drumming his fingers on the other arm as they waited while Wash began to kick some dirt to choke a small fire. Simmons had the words stuck in his throat and it took some time before he dared to say: “Grif and Caboose did not answer their radios.”

“Their helmets could have taken damage during the crash,” Wash explained. He looked shortly at Simmons before turning his visor towards Tucker. “Or they could still be unconscious.” At least he did not mention the third option; the one that had become a whisper in the back of Simmons’ brain. He forced himself to ignore it.

“Caboose could have turned off his radio by accident and forgotten how to turn it on.” Tucker shrugged. “It happens sometimes and then he just walks around talking to himself. We usually let it last some hours before we decide to fix it.” He turned towards Simmons who was shuffling his feet on the floor. “And Grif could be sleeping.”

“Yeah,” Simmons said, swallowing before saying it again with more strength in his voice. “Yeah.”

A minute later Sarge and Carolina arrived. “Are any of you injured?” she asked, not wasting time on meaningless bickering.

But for Simmons, even that question seemed stupid. “We’re fine,” he cut in before any of the others could answer. “Which part of the wreckage have you checked?”

Carolina looked at him for some seconds before answering: “We never reached the northern part of the ship. You should search there.”

Epsilon flickered alive on her shoulder. “In the meantime, we will investigate the area.”

Simmons was about to object. For fuck’s sake, they were still missing two members. They could not move onto other things now. Not when they did not even know if… He stopped himself – both from finishing that thought and from speaking out loud.

“We need to figure out where we have landed,” Carolina began. She was still looking at Simmons.

“I wouldn’t exactly call this a landing,” Tucker cut in but was silenced by a glance from Wash.

“And so we don’t know if there are any friendly or hostile forces nearby,” the female Freelancer finished.

Wash nodded. “Right. We’ll continue searching. I’ll call you if we find anything.”

They didn’t find anything, _anyone_ , for ten minutes. They split up, divided into a Red Team and a Blue Team. Nobody complained. The Blues liked being together, so of course they were happy with it. Sarge didn’t complain because they were Blue and he was Red, and everything literally went after his head this way. Simmons did not complain because the Blues had kept talking about Caboose and it was getting on his nerves.

Sarge huffed something about a conspiracy in which Grif had been the pilot and that was the reason why the ship crashed. He fell silent after that, and Simmons was grateful since there was this was weird lump in his throat that kept him from answering properly.

When none of them talked, the sound of the flames licking the wreckage seemed even stronger. By accident, Simmons focused on his breathing that only grew more frantic with each passing second. It almost sounded like his artificial lungs were the cause of echoes in the quiet hallway, and Simmons’ right hand was shaking uncontrollably when they finally heard the yelling.

Simmons began running. The yells were coming from somewhere left of them, and Simmons had to crawl through two holes in the walls before reaching the source.

It was Caboose who was wailing loudly whenever Tucker touched the wound on his leg. “For fuck’s sake, Caboose, stay still.”

“But I don’t want to switch team!”

“You’re not switching teams, idiot!”

“But, Tucker, I am turning red!”

“That’s just the blood, Caboose.”

That seemed to calm him down, for some weird reason. “Oh, good. I was really worried.”

Wash was kneeling down next to him, sighing loudly before looking up at Simmons. “Can you fetch a medkit from the infirmary?”

“But we need to find Grif,” Simmons stammered, putting extra emphasis on the name. This should not be like the time with Donut. After his ‘death’ he became a taboo. They never mentioned his name, they never brought it up, they never mentioned it for Wash. Simmons realized he had still not forgiven the Freelancer when he felt the urge to scream Grif’s name out loud until someone else would finally seem to care about his fate.

Sarge had caught up with Simmons and placed himself behind him. “The way I see it, Blue, you have men enough to play nurses.”

“Right,” Wash said and straightened up. “Tucker, stay with Caboose until I return. Caboose, -“

“Oh, Reds! You forgot something! Here!” The wounded soldier was holding his bloody hands out towards them.

The Freelancer sighed again. “Just don’t move.” He lifted his head to face the Reds. “Look, if you split up, chances are you’ll find him more quickly. I’ll bring extra medical supplies here in case it will be needed.”

Simmons wanted to punch him. Wash did not know Grif. Otherwise he would have known that Grif had survived everything that life had thrown at him. Hell, just look at what he had endured with Sarge at Red Base. There was no fucking way that this crash could take him out. No way.

Wash was gone, and Simmons realized he did not want to punch him. He wanted to cry. He held back a sniffle before following Sarge out of the room.

“Looks like the dirtbag has improved his hiding techniques,” his Sergeant huffed. “I will be mildly impressed should we find him inside a snowman again.”

“But… the fires, sir. It won’t be physical possible.”

“Exactly. And we all know that Grif is lazy enough to attempt and then horribly fail at anything in order to escape work. Chances are he slept through the crash and thinks the alarm bells signal lunch break.” He chuckled under his breath before turning to his soldier. “Private Simmons, I order you to track down Grif and then bring him back so he can receive the fitting punishment for crashing the ship.”

“Yes, sir,” Simmons said weakly, but was more grateful for the order than he realized at the moment. When his plan from the beginning had been shaped into orders it made it easier for him to achieve it. He would not fail Sarge. He would find Grif.

But Grif did not answer the radio. Grif did not yell from help. Simmons walked alone through the wreckage, entering each accessible room and carefully looked under every piece of metal that could have hidden Grif’s not so tiny body. And with body, he meant an unconscious Grif, not that he was dead. Because he wasn’t.

“Grif?”

Maybe he had taken more damage during the crash that he had thought at first. There definitely was an ache in his torso that had only grown worse while he searched. He should let Sarge have a look when he returned with Grif. Maybe a wire had snapped or something.

“Grif, you dickhead!” he called out louder this time. “Answer me already!”

It felt like an invisible force was pressing against his ribs. It hurt each time he took in a breath. He definitely needed to get that checked.

“Grif!”

His voice broke, and it shouldn’t do so, not when Grif was alive, because he had to be, because this was Grif and he had wrecked far too many things for his to be the end of him, and he could no die now, not when the last thing they had done was to fight and Grif had been angry and they could not –

Something inside his chest must have broken. Simmons crouched together as he hugged himself, arms wrapped around his torso in an attempt to soothe the pain.

…fucking crash…

“Ow.”

The moan was weak and distant, but Simmons could recognize it. Grif had spent so much time bitching and whining that it was way too familiar to him. “Grif?!” The cyborg began running, pain in his chest forgotten as he leaped over the door that was hanging weakly from one hinge to enter the room where the sound had come from.

His foot was caught on the metal and he stumbled, landing face-first on the ground, before forcing himself up and towards the corner of the room.

Orange. Simmons was finally able to spot something orange, and his joy only grew bigger when he realized there was nothing red. “Grif!”

“Ow,” the soldier moaned again. He was pinned under a fallen pillar, hopelessly stuck against the metal and the ground. “Simmons?”

The maroon soldier jumped over the metal to lean over his friend. “Grif, you dumbass!” he cried happily, looking at him to take in all the orange. “Why didn’t you answer your radio?!”

“Geez, I don’t know,” Grif said through gritted teeth. “Maybe because I am fucking stuck!” He squirmed again to show Simmons how he was unable to move his arms.

“Oh.” Simmons glanced at the pillar. Luckily for Grif, it had crashed on a nearby desk, so the soldier did not have all the weigh directly on top of him. The cyborg wrapped both his arms around the piece of metal and shifted his feet to get a better footing. “On three.”

“Just do it now, Simmons,” Grif complained. “It’s fucking heavy.”

“Three,” Simmons said and pulled. Even with his metal arm he only managed to lift it an inch.

But it was enough. Grif rolled his way into freedom, moaning the entire way. “Ow, ow, ow.”

Simmons rushed over to help him sit against the wall. “Are you okay?”

“I had a fucking pillar on top of me, Simmons!”

“Yeah, I noticed,” he snorted and tilted his head. “So you are whining or dying?”

Grif was silent for a moment as he considered it. “My ribs hurt,” he finally said, carefully holding a hand against them.

Simmons nodded. But there was nothing red. “They are probably bruised. Do you have any trouble breathing?”

To test it, Grif inhaled deeply. “Still hurts, but, you know, I’m still breathing.”

“Yeah,” Simmons said, sliding down the wall to sit next to him. “Yeah, you are.”

“So what the fuck happened?” Grif asked, tearing off his helmet to get a better view of the trashed room. There was no blood on his face either. Simmons was not sure if there was a god with a plan for them and stuff, but he was pretty damn grateful for whoever or whatever that had let the Reds and Blues survive this. “One moment I am looking for my soda, next thing I am waking up on the floor. Worst nap ever.” He paused, eyes going distant for a moment before correcting himself. “Well, second worst nap ever. Are the others okay?”

“They’re fine. You’re the last one to show up, you lazy piece of shit.”

“’cause that was totally my fault.”

Simmons allowed himself to breathe in deeply. He deserved it after all this stress. His eyes flew open in surprise when he realized it did not hurt anymore. Simmons looked at Grif who was holding his side.

Oh.

“It was you!”

“What? What did I do now?”

“You gave me fucking phantom pains,” Simmons scolded him, pointing at his own torso. “It hurt like hell just before.”

Grif frowned. “I thought you said it didn’t work like that! We tested it, remember?”

Oh right. Back when they had just survived their surgeries. As much as Simmons hated to be proven wrong, his pain before was a scientific fact. He could not just ignore that.

And what else could that pain have been?

Simmons shrugged. “Well, it hurt.”

“Fucking. Pillar. Not my fault.”

The maroon soldier took off his helmet as well. Just to be on the same level. He ran a hand through his red hair. It was wet from sweat.

“Wha – are you fucking crying?!”

“What? No!” Simmons tried to hide his horrified expression with his hands. There was no way he had been crying. Of course he had wanted to, but that had been from the adrenaline, and that was perfectly natural. “It’s just… The smoke gets to your eyes.”

“Right.”

“Shut up!” Simmons shrieked at him. “It’s you who keeps almost dying!” He was pointing accusingly at him with a shaking finger. Fucking idiot. First he had been falling off a cliff, and now this? And Simmons had promised to look after his ass. The moron did not make that an easy job.

“I didn’t almost die! I was stuck! Why are you freaking out?  I got stuck back in Red Base as well the time where I tried to hide my stash in the vents.”

Simmons remembered that. It had taken them hours to pull Grif’s fat ass out of there. He could not help but smile at the memory. The happy expression faltered when he remembered what they had just gone through. “We fucking crashed, Grif.”

“Not the first time.”

“Can you at least try to seem alive the next time?”

“’Next time’? Wow, you’re sounding optimistic about our future, Simmons.”

“You know what I mean!”

Grif tilted his head, black hair falling into his eyes. He should cut it soon, Simmons thought, and wondered if he should offer to do it. “Fine. I will try not to make you cry again, fucking cry baby.”

“It’s still the smoke.”

“See, you say that, but I don’t believe you.”

They had turned their bodies slightly so they were facing each other directly. Simmons wondered if he had tear-tracks on his face. He would have lifted a hand to wipe them away, but that action would only just prove that he had cried. So he just stared at Grif. “So what do you want from me?”

“Well, not a fucking hug,” Grif snorted and frowned slightly. “’cause, you know, the ribs.”

It took some seconds before Simmons’ brain registered the words. “You don’t want a hug,” he said slowly.

“Exactly, Simmons. I don’t want a hug.”

Simmons stared at Grif and decided that it did not look weird to have two different colored eyes. It was much weirder to have a fake eye like himself. That was weird. Being a cyborg was weird. That was why Grif was staring at him too.

“So, is Grif dead or do I have to tell Sarge the sad news?” Tucker’s voice called from the maroon helmet lying next Simmons.

The two soldiers pulled their heads back in surprise, and Simmons quickly put his helmet back on. “I – uh- no. Grif’s not dead. Really not dead.”

“Good,” Tucker said. It sounded like he was grinning. Asshole. “You’re busy then?”

“We’re meeting up just north of the wreckage,” Wash told them. “We have things to discuss.”

“Simmons!” Sarge’s voice could be heard. “If you found Grif, tell him he violated the Red Team’s guidelines for emergency situations by showing up late. It’s a humiliation to the Red Team, and the only appropriate punishment is for him to humiliate himself in front of the Blues. He knows the drill.”

“Yeah,” Simmons said. “Yeah, he does.”

The radio became quiet again and Simmons stood up to offer Grif a hand. “So the others want us to come.”

“Never a fucking quiet moment,” Grif grumbled but took his hand nonetheless. “And I was just about to take a nap.”

“I think you’ve slept enough for today, dumbass.”

They had turned around to leave the wrecked room when Grif suddenly called out: “Hey, Simmons?”

The cyborg looked over his shoulder, breath stuck in his throat. “Yes, Grif?”

“There’s a dead dude in the corner.” Grif pointed at the white armor of a UNSC worker. There was so much red around the helmet that had been crushed from a piece of the ceiling.

Simmons rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, they are kinda everywhere.”

“Oh,” Grif said and followed his friend out of the room. “Well, sucks to be them.”

Simmons looked at Grif who was very orange and very alive and really not white and dead. He breathed in again just to check if the pain was gone. It was. “Yeah,” he said and together they walked out of the wreckage to see where life had brought them now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was my last day of my holidays. Spent it rewatching season 13 of RvB, made myself cry because of that freaking cliffhanger, and then went straight to my computer to write this chapter. Now I am going to bed. It’s the middle of the night, way too late. Oh well. One day’s work. I hope starting at the university won’t affect the speed of my updates that much, but I can’t promise anything. Only two chapters left now.  
> Also if this chapter lacks some T’s, it’s because that letter kinda broke on my keyboard. I have tried to fix it as well as I could, but if I failed to spot them all, please forgive me.


	12. Glory to the Red Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck,” Grif agreed, and for a moment he wondered if he was done, if he had let it all off his chest so they could stop this weird moment/not-a-moment/Grif-hates-labels. But there was a whisper in the back of his head, something that had been troubling him ever since they had left Rat’s Nest and things had begun to be annoyingly serious. “I’m fucking orange.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set somewhat after episode 6 of season 12.

“Simmons!” Grif yelled and kicked his door open. He did not fear the consequences of marching into Simmons’ room without knocking. Donut had almost made him immune to the fear of walking in on somebody naked. The pink soldier had given him traumas. He was scarred for life.

Plus seeing Simmons naked would not be that bad. It would give him opportunities. You know, to see how the cyborg really looked like. Simmons always preferred privacy when he bathed. That was not fair. He knew how Grif looked. It was fair if Grif got his questions answered as well.

But that was not his goal now. The cyborg was sitting on bed, out of armor just like Grif, but his torso was free from any kind of clothes as he was working on some panels on his torso. Oh well. He jumped slightly when Grif marched into the room stand in front of him. “Grif?”

“Simmons, tell me that I suck!”

“You… what?”

“Tell me that I suck,” Grif said, more slowly this time since the nerd was obviously not getting it. “Tell me I’m a good-for-nothing dirtbag who deserves to be shot in the face.”

Simmons blinked. Twice. Then he finally seemed to pull himself out of his thoughts. He closed the panels on his torso, straightened out his back and looked him straight in the eyes. “Okay, dumbass, what did you do?”

“Are you fucking deaf, Simmons? Just tell me that I’m a lazy piece of shit already!”

“Wha- _Why_?!” the cyborg sputtered. He had widened his human eye in confusion.

He looked so fucking dumb with that expression, like he had just been dropped on the moon or some shit.“For fuck’s sake – now you need a fucking reason?! Come on, Simmons, half of our conversations are fucking insults. Don’t hold back now!”

The tone snapped Simmons out of it. He narrowed his eyes and said, “I’m not holding back, dipshit.”

“Yes. You. Are.” Grif kept his words slow and his glance on level with his friend’s to make sure he had his attention. “Just repeat after me – ‘ _You are a fucking moron and a waste of space in this world_ ’.”

Simmons’ annoyed expression crumbled. Grif could literally see how his eyes darkened (as in the robotic eye literally dimmed its light. Literally. Holy shit) before he lowered his head. Grif was confused until he heard his friend mumble, “No, I’m not.” He sniffed loudly and pathetically. “I’m not.”

Grif dropped his jaw. The scene before him was that useless. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” He wanted to reach out and lift the cyborg’s head so he could fucking get it, but Grif stayed where he was. “Simmons, I’m the fucking waste of space.”

Simmons raised his head. Grif’s explanation had at least removed his saddened expression. He always looked like a kicked puppy when his self-esteem had been crushed. Now he just looked dumbfounded with a stupid frown on his face. “No. What why do you think that?”

“No, no, no.” Grif had to keep himself from pulling his hair. And he had come here to get rid of some of the stress that had been plaguing him – not to add more. “You’re doing it wrong. Come on, Simmons, I’m on my fucking knees. Do I have to fucking beg you? Why are you so cruel today?!”

The cyborg pulled his head back, obviously confused and suspicious. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Are you – Grif, are you fucking drunk?”

“No.” There was this weird knot in his chest, and whenever he focused on it, his eyes would feel like they were burning. Grif looked away and tried to clear his throat. “Wish I was. Do you got any alcohol?”

“Where the fuck would I have gotten my hands on that? You know they have restrictions.”

“Yeah, I’m fucking aware of that! It’s the only reason why I’m sober.”

“Grif-“

The normally orange cladded soldier stomped a foot. “Just tell me I’m the most useless person you’ve ever met!”

“Why would I do that?” Simmons’ confusion was slowly turning into frustration and it was causing his voice to rise.

“Because I’m not fucking Sarge. I’m not.” Grif curled his hands into fists and looked at the floor. “I’m not – Look, there’s no fucking way- It’s wrong and I- I’m from fucking Hawaii, not the South – it was Bitters’ own fucking fault - Holy fuck – I’m blabbering? Why am I blabbering? You’re supposed to be blabbering! What the fuck is wrong with me?! First Sarge – am I turning into you next?!”

Simmons looked like he was about to jump up from the bed. He had actually reached out his arms as if he was about to pull his friend down on the bed. But he didn’t. Instead he just yelled: “Grif, calm down!”

“I can’t calm down – I’m panicking!”

“Stop panicking.”

“I can’t!” Grif stopped pacing back and forth, froze when he realized that he had not even been aware of the fact that he had been pacing, shrugged that feeling off, and turned to stare accusingly at Simmons. “Why aren’t you freaking out – you’re always freaking out!”

“I _am_ freaking out,” Simmons said. Said. Not yelled. He was sitting on his bed, staring at Grif, and he just said that.

So of course that was a fucking lie. Grif knew Simmons, he had lived with him for years, they were friends – ergo, Grif had come to know how Simmons was like when he was freaking out. It normally included screaming, pacing and broken mirrors. “No, you’re not. Your voice hasn’t even broken yet.”

Simmons sighed quietly and shifted his body. “Of course I’m freaking out, Grif.”

Grif firmly shook his head. “If that was the case, you would have been whining my ears off! Which you haven’t been. In fact, you haven’t been boring me with stupid plans and unnecessary worries ever since we got stuck here.” He let the bitterness in his last sentence be obvious. After being promoted to Captains, they had been assigned their own private quarters which meant a lot less bickering between the two of them. It reminded him of the time in Rat’s Nest –except that he had been sure to visit and therefor bother Simmons back then. Here it seemed that Simmons just avoided him with stupid excuses about his squad and training and other none-important reasons.

The cyborg seemed to realize this as well since his gaze fell again. He could not hide his guilt. Not from Grif. “We’ve been busy.”

“No, _you’ve_ been busy. With training and strategies and embarrassing yourself in front of your squad.”

When Simmons raised his head again, the guilt was gone and replaced with something that Grif could not quite describe. Determination, perhaps. No matter what, it didn’t look good on him. “I know this is a new concept to you, dumbass, but I am being a responsible soldier.”

“Then stop doing that and be normal again.”

“It’s not that simple, Grif.” Simmons was being extra annoying by adding a sigh in his voice, as if Grif was too little and dumb to figure out the point that everybody else knew about. “We are growing with the task. Yeah, that means you too, dipshit. Why else do you think you’re having an existential crisis?”

To his defense, Grif had been too busy dealing with the thoughts that was caused by the existential crisis – he did not have the energy to go the next step and think about why it was troubling him. He crossed his arms in defiance. “Well, I don’t want that.”

“Too bad for you. This is life, Grif.”

“Then tell life to go suck a dick.”

“Grif!” Simmons shrieked at him.

“What?!” he yelled back.

“Just take in a deep breath and slow down.”

There are things you never expect people to say. Like Sarge admitting the Blues were better. Donut telling them he had a girlfriend. Lopez speaking just one word in English. And Simmons – Simmons was not supposed to give advice on how to relax. The cyborg was always an emotional wreck. What did he know about being calm? Grif wondered if he was truly in the deep end if he was relying on Simmons to slap some sense into him. “Are you seriously telling me to relax? _You_?!”

“I have to before you give me a meltdown!” Simmons told him sternly, voice slightly raised and with his hands on his hips. He paused slightly to take in a deep breath before saying:  “Look, just – why are you here, Grif?”

So that was one of life’s great mysteries.

Grif looked away and ran a hand through his hair. “Because… Because this is all bullshit.” He held back a sigh and his urge for a smoke. But this was Simmons’ room and he could only press his luck that far. “We were going home, Simmons.”

“I know.”

Grif kicked an invisible stone on the floor. “I was going to show you Hawaii, and this isn’t even our fucking war!”

“Well, it is now.”

Then came this thick annoying silence that was driving Grif crazy. The silence craved for one of them to speak. No one did. Grif’s skin was itching and he wanted a cigarette. When he finally shook the urge off him, he found the words to continue the conversation.

“That’s what I’m saying, Simmons. Fucking bullshit.”

“Kimball says-“

Grif cut him off. “Fuck Kimball. We’ve been manipulated ever since we stepped into the army. These people are desperate, Simmons, and you know what desperate people do? Everything. What’s stopping Kimball for lying to us just so we can be their so-called heroes?”

“Stop it, Grif.” The cyborg was looking at the floor and he had clenched his fists. A panel on his torso blinked.

“I-“

“Just fucking shut up!” Simmons finally snapped. His left eye, the green light, was trying to burn a hole in Grif’s face. So intense was his stare. “I don’t need to hear this, so just go and tell your bullshit to somebody else.”

“Who? Who else can I speak to, Simmons?! We’re the only ones left!”

And cue silence. Mainly because there was not much else to say. The others were gone. He and Simmons were the only Reds. And Simmons had been fucking ignoring him.

Grif had come to the conclusion that he hated Chorus.

It was Simmons who broke the silence. His stare was less intense. Not so annoyed. A bit more depressed. “I know. I mean – _fuck_. But if we don’t help here, we can’t really do anything.” Simmons paused and looked at his hands. Even from the distance, Grif could see that he was pretending to fix some wires on his mechanical limb. Seconds passed before he dared asked: “Do you really think they are gone?”

Simmons’ voice was wavering, and Grif felt a pang of guilt in his chest. He had achieved what he wanted. Simmons had stopped being so weirdly distant and stern and somewhat sure of himself. Now he was the nervous wreck that Grif knew so well. Looking at Simmons’ hunched form, Grif wished he could have kept his fucking mouth quiet.

He had come here to load of his chest about the situation, but now it was his turn to suck it up and somehow manage to be comforting. He had to. Otherwise, Simmons would begin to cry or something, and that would be embarrassing for the both of them.  “Well, it is Donut we are talking about. Fucker can survive anything. And Sarge is… you know. He won’t give up. Their captors must be having the biggest headache ever.”

“Yeah…” Simmons hesitated but at least he was agreeing with him. “Could have been worse.”

“You mean if I had gotten stuck with Sarge and you would have been left with Donut.” Grif could not help but snort. Just imagining that scenario was horrifying. He could not decide who would have been the most tortured person in that version.

Simmons shrugged. “Well, yes. Your tendency at almost dying just proves that you need me to watch your ass. What would you have done if we got split up?”

“Don’t fucking blame me – you’re the one who was hold prisoner by a lunatic freelancer and got fucking shot. So don’t tell me I’m the helpless one.”

The cyborg tilted his head to stare at him. “I guess we just need each other.” It was said very carefully but Simmons tried to play it off as something casual. He did a good job. Considering he was Simmons.

“Yeah…” Grif had begun to agree but then froze. He squinted in suspicion. “Wait, are you trying to turn this into a sappy moment?”

Simmons rolled his eye. “Well, you being a dick makes it pretty difficult.”

“I’m the one having a mental breakdown! And you’re literally the Dick in this room.”

Simmons groaned loudly and Grif had to hide a smirk. The cyborg leaned his head back. “When does that joke stop being funny?”

“I don’t know. Maybe around the same time as the fat-jokes?”

He snorted to hold back laughter. Grif relaxed in his shoulders. The mood had definitely improved. For a brief moment it was almost like Chorus was forgotten. It was just the two of the, bickering in their shared quarters, and damn that felt good. All the events on Chorus had made Grif feel so tired. No, not tired, he was always tired. Old, perhaps.

“So, are you still freaking out?” Simmons asked after a couple of seconds.

Grif shrugged as an honest answer. “I don’t know. Simmons, something is seriously wrong with me. I just want things to be like they were. Back in, oh fuck I hate to say this, Blood Gulch. And I hated that place.” He almost understood how Simmons had felt back in Rat’s Nest when Grif had been his Sergeant. Right now Grif could feel the inner battles within himself.

Simmons had tilted his head. “So why do you miss it?” He sounded curious and a bit surprised. He should be.

“Don’t you?”

“I guess I do,” the cyborg answered. A frown decorated his forehead and he sounded slightly unsure of himself.

“Then answer your own question.”

Simmons rubbed the back of his neck. He bit his lip – he always did that when he was looking for the right words. “Well, things weren’t really that dangerous. Or, well, you were flattened by the tank, Donut was hit by a grenade, Sarge was shot in the head and I… Wait, I did perfectly fine in Blood Gulch! I told you I was a capable soldier!”

“You had a mental breakdown and colored yourself blue,” Grif reminded him dryly.

“Oh. Yeah…” The cyborg looked hilariously forlorn. Though, Grif had good memories of being held prisoner by him.

“Fun times, though. How come this place doesn’t have a hole?!”

“Fate can only be so cruel.”

Grif snorted because that was funny – and that was good, _this_ was good, and they were joking and everything and the mood was good and… Fuck it, he had to say it.

“Simmons, I think something is seriously wrong with me.”

He had barely finished his sentence before Simons went pale. Well, paler. He looked absolutely horrified. “Do you need to sit down for this? Do I have to sit down?!”

“You’re already sitting down.”

“Oh, right.” Simmons’ eyes were darting around, and in the end, Grif took pity on him. He sat down heavily next to him on the bed. It creaked loudly which really was not fair since Grif had lost weight since Blood Gulch. Trying to stay alive did that to one. The two of them were so quiet that he could hear Simmons swallow before he asked: “Are you… are you dying?”

“I don’t know. Look, Simmons, today I woke up and…” The cyborg had widened his human eye, looking so terrified that Grif feared he might puke. He had to hurry up with this, even though it was painful to reveal. “I thought to be myself, man I’m glad I was drafted back then.”

Simmons blinked slowly. “That’s it?”

Grif narrowed his eyes. That was pretty offending. “It’s a big fucking deal, Simmons! Holy crap! This is me we’re talking about.”

“Alright, alright, I just thought… Never mind. So why this sudden epiphany?”

“Small words, Simmons.”

Simmons nodded shortly before trying to correct himself. “Why did you feel that way?”

“Because life sucked before the draft. Don’t get me fucking wrong – the army sucked bad, but, you know, things happened there wouldn’t have happened otherwise.”

“Like meeting me? And the rest of us?”

“If that’s the way you want to put it.” Grif shrugged. Simmons was sounding pretty hopeful today. Grif looked away and rubbed the back of his neck as he revealed: “Look, point is things weren’t really going that well before the draft. I was just 16 when she left, you know. Got a job, somehow survived school, but you don’t earn that much. Not enough. Wipe that look off your face – I wasn’t a goddamn criminal. I just… took stuff nobody needed. Food. Only. For Kai. It’s not a big deal –I still steal your food. I’m just saying that if we had met in an alternative universe where we never joined the army, you would have hated my guts. Wait – we still hated each other’s guts. But, you know- Argh, what I am trying to say is that I think the only way you and I could ever learn to get along was by forcing us to share a room. Which was exactly what happened.”

When Grif had finished talking he was staring at his feet, but he could feel Simmons’ eyes burn into the side of his head. The cyborg did not say anything – he just stared. And this was why Grif did not do moments.

“Alright, that’s it – I’m never saying touchy shit again. Just forget about it.”

“No, this is - this is good, Grif. Opening up like that, it’s – I’m really proud of you.” Simmons breathed in slowly. “So, my turn, I guess. My father was an asshole.” Fucking finally. He was not sure who was most happy about Simmons finally saying it out loud. But it was about damn time. “And I had to get away from him. So it was the right choice, really. But – okay, look, you wanted me to say it, so fine. You’re a lazy piece of shit. You have no respect for hygiene standards. You eat like a pig and your choice of food is disgusting. I hate your guts. But you’re my best friend.”

“First friend.”

“Uncalled for.”

“Right. Sorry.” Grif let his eyes flicker around the room. “But touché, nerd.”

“Donut would have loved this,” Simmons said with the ghost of a grimace on his face.

“Fuck,” Grif agreed, and for a moment he wondered if he was done, if he had let it all off his chest so they could stop this weird moment/not-a-moment/Grif-hates-labels. But there was a whisper in the back of his head, something that had been troubling him ever since they had left Rat’s Nest and things had begun to be annoyingly serious. “I’m fucking orange.”

“Yes? Is that a trick question? Or did someone call you yellow again.”

“I’m not fucking yellow,” he said under his breath, just to clarify because people are stupid and don’t know their colors. It was almost like they were all colorblind, and, fuck it all, because that word was forbidden and Kai –

Grif stared at the floor and then the ceiling and the wall, and he stared until his eyes hurt. “Look, I’m the orange soldier in a Red Army. I’m not _Red._ I was told to pick a red armor so I put on orange because it was closest. I don’t give a fuck about orders, I don’t fight for anything. I’m just surviving. You don’t make a guy like me a Captain. It’s like they’re arranging their own fuckup.” The words were bitter and they left his mouth without him thinking further about it. He felt drunk. Wished he was. Fucking Kimball and her rules. Chorus sucked.

“I don’t think this place has high standards. I-  I can’t even talk to my team! I’m not ready for this! But they are not that ready either.” They are both quiet for a while where they think about the same thing – their men when they took off their helmets and revealed that they were not men but fucking kids and they don’t deserve to be in the middle of a war.

Grif snorted bitterly. “What did I say? Fucking desperate.”

“But we’re trying. For Sarge and Donut and Lopez. And Wash, I guess. And then we kinda have to try for Chorus, too.” Simmons fiddled with his hands. This time he used his metal fingers to close around his flesh hand. I looked rather painful – Grif knew the strength of the mechanical limb. “So you are fighting for something. That’s why you’re here now. And that makes you a true _Red._ Even though you failed to choose the correct protocol colored armor.”

“Huh. Sarge would have loved this. Probably would have disagreed, but he loves talking about Red-ness.” Grif sighed deeply and looked at the ceiling. “Ugh, this not-a-moment won’t fucking end.”

“It was probably needed.”

Grif realized this painfully emotional conversation was only so fucking long because he had kept talking and Simmons had kept listening. That was wrong. He was so sick of Red Team switching roles. “What about you? You okay?”

Simmons winched. “I can’t talk to my squad. They have unlimited faith in us and chances are we’re going to fail. I can’t sleep at night and my left knee has started to rust. Things suck.” He lifted his head. “But at least this fight has a purpose. It makes it worth it.”

“Sarge has to give you that promotion when you rescue him.”

“When _we_ rescue him,” Simmons corrected him sternly. “And the others.”

“Whatever. He’s probably just going to blame me for him getting shot.” Grif snorted and wondered  how much damage war could cause your mind. “Fuck, I even miss being his fucking scapegoat. It’s better than Matthews’ worshipping. That’s just creepy.”

“Have you ever considered giving him recognition for his loyalty? It might boost his self-worth plus giving him a sense of purpose in life.”

 “You are such a kissass.” And those were the truest word ever spoken. Grif turned his head to stare at him. Simmons looked older here. Tired. Worn. He wondered if he would have noticed all of this had Simmons not kept a distance from him. Fucking idiot. What had he been trying to prove? “Look, instead of having a meltdown in the corner, just do what we normally do. Whine to me about it. Sneak into my room and beat me up with a pillow. The standard routine.”

“Like that would wake you up.” Simmons sighed. “If I call you a good-for-nothing dirtbag, can you tell me it’s going to be okay?” His body was shaking a bit. Grif could feel the bed tremble. “They can’t be dead.”

“Of course they aren’t dead. Sarge and Donut can survive anything. Lopez is a fucking robot and Wash is a Freelancer.” And Grif remembered a time so long ago where the others had been hurt by Tex and Simmons had been worried and Grif had tried to calm him down. His words had worked back then, so he repeated them. “If you want to be worried, worry about us.”

“What?” Simmons’ voice broke. Well, shit. That might have worked back then, but not anymore. Grif knew it was a long time ago, but it was first now when he realized how much things had changed.

“No, wait, forget that. We’re fine. I mean, we’re probably the worst Captains ever of all time but we can do this. We've already survived so much bullshit – I’d be surprised if our ride had gone without a hitch. Fucking grateful, but surprised.”

Simmons breathed in shakily. Grif could see him compose himself, see how his back straightened. “I really want to see that apartment of yours,” Simmons told him with a thick voice. “Or maybe I’m scared to see how much mess two Grifs could make.”

Grif was tired and he knew that Simmons was all well, and he decided to ignore the fact that Simmons had talked in past tense. Just this once.

Simmons turned his head to face him. “So you better not die, dumbass.” His bottom lip trembled slightly.

Grif forced himself to look upwards until he met his eyes. “Not planning to. Already promised Sarge that honor.” He did not know what to say, so when Simmons raised his hand to brush some stray hair away from his face and Grif saw _it_ , he could not have been more grateful. “Holy fuck, is that what I think it is?” He did not wait for him to answer, but instead he leaned over his lap to grab his left wrist and pulled it back for him to investigate. “I thought you said you fixed it,” he muttered as he let his fingers run along the edge of the bullet hole. It was not that visible anymore, the edges had been dulled, but metal did not heal.

“Well, the wires are fixed. There is nothing wrong with it. It’s just like a scar.”

“Much cooler than a scar. And trust me, I know a thing or two about scars.” He let his hand rest so his fingers are near the wound, or scar, or whatever you could call it. “Just don’t start a fucking collection like I did. You better stay alive too, nerd.”

Simmons smiled grimly. “Who else could watch your ass? I have to stay around. You can’t survive without me. That’s written all over your face, Dex,” he said jokingly, nodding his head towards Grif and his scars.

Grif knew that sometimes Simmons’ limbs would glitch. He could shoot his own foot by accident, there would be sparks, or he would suddenly start to print paper from _somewhere_. It was best just to ignore it when it happened. Simmons was rather embarrassed about those things.

So when Simmons’ fingers suddenly closed around his hand, holding it so tightly that it hurt, none of them looked down to acknowledge it.

“Dick,” Grif said and hoped Simmons would catch the double meaning, because, seriously, some names were just too perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much fluff. And angst. Took forever to write. Once again I end up publishing chapters at 3 am my time. I should be getting sleep. Or studying. But I am really planning to finish the story this weekend. And trust me, it’s going to be a grand finale. I have most of it written already, but I think it will be quite long, but I will do my best to get it out soon.  
> Thank you so much for all your support!


	13. Do You Ever Wonder Why We're Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The HQ is strangely silent. Everything seems muted and Simmons’ breathing echoes in his ears. The ringing is there too, in the back of his head. Simmons wonders if he has gone insane or if one of the many systems Sarge has installed in him has crashed. He decides that he does not care. There are many ways to be broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after that freaking cliffhanger at the end of Season 13.  
> Prepare for angst and a trip down the memory lane. There are a lot of kinda flashbacks from all the earlier chapters, so perhaps it is time for a reread. That’s up to you.
> 
> Also, really spoilery warning in the beginning of the bottom notes. Jump to it if you need warning tags, otherwise enjoy the story from here.

Statistically thinking, they are pretty fucked. Simmons knows this. It does not require that much analysis of their situation. When the door falls (which it will. Soon. Fuck.) they are not going to have any cover. They will literally be standing in the heat of the battle. If the enemies have a machine gun or throw a grenade…

…Yeah. Pretty fucked sums up their situation quite perfectly.

Simmons’ artificial lungs breathe in deeply. When he looks ahead he can see their doom coming closer as the laser near the ground. When he looks the left he can see the Reds and Blues preparing themselves, and for a brief moment he can’t deny how badass and how fucking cool they look. When he looks to the right, he can see Grif.

The orange soldier is holding the brute shot – no, okay, but only because the mood allows it: Grif shot – and Simmons knows that he is smiling behind the visor, and Simmons cannot help but smile as well, because, holy crap, Grif has been whining about that thing for hours in a row.

Simmons’ robotic eye flickers towards the door and calculates, 8 fucking seconds, and when he glances at Grif, the orange soldier his tilted his head at him in a manner that makes Simmons realize that he is sending him a smile. The cyborg wonders if he should say something or if Grif is about to say something, but the others are too close to them. They would hear it, and Simmons would prefer if the last words spoken to him are not Sarge telling him that he has become soft.

He gives Grif a nod and knows that it is enough when they both turn to face the door. The room is filled with tension. They are Red and Blue but they are holding their breath in unison. The door falls over and Simmons’ lungs exhale.

It is louder than expected. The fight begins with a single gunshot and its echo drowns in the chaos that follows. The Reds and Blues open fire, and they give them everything they got. The plan is far from fool-proof but it is simple. Simmons repeats the three steps inside his mind. Kill all the assholes before they can take aim. Survive until the others arrive. Watch Grif’s ass.

Statistically thinking, it’s not going to work. Not for all of them. Hargrove’s men are going to shoot and hit at some point.

Simmons tries to ignore the whisper that tells him this is the end, and the logical part of his brain that tells him someone is going to die. Instead he focuses on the deal he and Grif made so many years ago back in Blood Gulch. They watch each other’s ass. That’s why they are still here.

Bullets embed themselves in the wall behind him. Simmons flinches. His human hand is shaking but the left one keeps a steady grip on the gun and pulls the trigger each time an enemy appears in the doorway. The cyborg bites the inside of his cheek and tastes blood.

To calm himself down, he recalls the words Grif had told him when they had prepared themselves for war on Chorus.

_“We’re fine. I mean, we’re probably the worst Captains ever of all time but we can do this. We’ve already survived so much bullshit.”_

Grif has a point. Simmons reminds himself of it. They are still alive. They have come so far.

So this cannot be the end.

A rocket explodes in the doorway by the courtesy of Doc. Or O’Malley. Simmons is still not sure what the deal is with the medic, but no matter what, the rocket is appreciated.

Simmons uses the moment of distraction to glance at his right. He sees orange. Grif is reloading his brute shot.

He has no idea of how long the battle lasts. It is so loud that orders, warnings and praise from teammates just blur together. It is the brief flashes of the battle that his brain acknowledges.

Sarge is chuckling when his shotgun blows off an enemy’s head. Simmons reloads his Needlers and looks to his right and sees orange. Grif is struggling to get a foothold after firing a grenade.

One of Hargrove’s men shows up in heavy armor and a machine gun. “Son of a bitch,” Grif exclaims, but Simmons does not have the time to panic before Tucker rushes at the enemy. Simmons is not worried. The Blue is dressed like a fucking hero, and the armor is glowing by the time he reaches the hallway. “Swish-swish-stab, bitch!” Yeah, he’ll be fine. Simmons has come to realize the Blues are practically invincible by now.

Caboose is yelling something, but it dies in the sound of gunfire. Simmons can faintly hear Freckles’ monotone voice answer his owner and suddenly the gunfire intensifies. Simmons falls to his knees and dodges a bullet. He looks to his right and sees orange. Grif has turned his head towards him, and Simmons stands up again to let him know he’s okay.

 At some point Donut cries out in pain. Simmons turns his head to see Lopez pulling the pink soldier to his feet. Whatever the injury is, it isn’t fatal, then. Simmons turns the other way and sees orange. Grif fires and doesn’t stumble. He has become better. It almost looks natural to see him with that weapon. There are still memories of the Meta and the way it had pointed the brute shot at Simmons, but seeing Grif take a stance with it fills Simmons’ chest with something that is not fear.

The battle is so loud. There are bullet and explosions everywhere, and Simmons thinks of his father. He wants him to see this – to see his son in this – to see his son survive this – to see his son fucking own this – to see his son save a fucking planet and then go to Honolulu to live with the laziest hero Simmons has ever met. Simmons wants his father to see this and then flip him the finger.

He looks to his right and doesn’t see orange.

Something explodes and leaves a ringing in his ears.

Simmons lowers his glance and sees orange. On the floor. With red surrounding it and no – fucking – goddamn it – no way – lazy cockbite – watch his ass –– goddamn it – there’s no fucking way this could be happening –

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a memory gives him a dark reminder.

_“I didn’t fucking plan on going into this war, and when that’s the case, you fucking don’t plan on getting out. You have to be realistic and shit.”_

“NO!” Simmons yells because that is not true, _this_ is not true, even though statistically thinking –

Simmons’ mind goes blank and the next thing he registers is pain as he falls heavily on his knees next to Grif. The entire chest plague is red from blood, and Simmons’ hands fumble their way to try to locate the source of the bleeding and in the process he realizes there are more than one entry hole. “Holy shit, holy shit.”

There is no fucking cover. Half of Simmons’ brain is telling him to get up. He can’t just sit here next to Grif, he can’t help him, he is going to get shot as well, he should be keeping the enemies at bay with the others, so that Wash can come with his fucking healing unit.

Simmons does not listen to the logical part of his brain. He grabs Grif’s hand. The loss of logic does not surprise him – it feels like a part of his mind is shutting down. Fuck it, he’s staying down here. Bullets be damned.

Cover arrives in the red shape of Sarge who places himself in front of them, blasting his shotgun with a gleeful yell. Simmons wants to force Grif into a sitting position so he can fucking see this. He needs to rub this in his face – Sarge is fucking saving them. Look at this, Grif, this is what you have been told all along. Sarge cares and he is a glorious leader and Grif is not going to die.

Perhaps Sarge is yelling something at them but the battle is too loud. Simmons ignores it and everything else except that irrational side of his brain that now forces his bloody hands to reach for Grif’s helmet. The pool of blood is growing beneath Grif’s still body that has not shown any signs of life so far and Simmons needs to see his face, just to reassure himself that –

-Grif is still alive. When the helmet is gone, his eyes are darting around, looking at the ceiling until they set on Simmons. “Fu- fuck.” Simmons can barely hear the word, even when he has leaned his head so close that his visor is almost touching Grif’s oddly grey face. Simmons stares at the painful smile Grif is giving him and notices the way his lips are trembling and the bloodstains in the corner his mouth.

“You fucking dumbass,” Simmons breathes out and leans back so he can deal with the wound. Or at least try to. Probably fail to. Simmons realizes he needs to take off the armor before he can perform any kind of treatment, so he freezes and turns his head away from Grif’s face for a moment. He can’t do that now. The realization hits him like a brick to the head.

Step one and three of his plan has failed. Just fucking great. He is no longer dealing with the assholes. He did not watch Grif’s ass, at least not well enough.

That leaves only one thing left to do, and that is to survive until help arrives.

Simmons uses his right hand to hold Grif’s because he wants to feel this. The metal limb is used to press against the entry holes in the hope that it will somehow slow the bleeding. Grif’s body jolts beneath him when he pushes too hard. “Sorry,” Simmons mutters and lets out a shaky exhale. “Sorry, Grif.”

He is not sure if Grif is trying to answer but the only thing that leaves his lips is an unintelligible gurgle and a drop of blood falls from the corner of his mouth and leaves a bloody trail as gravity pulls it towards the floor.

Simmons is shaking and it feels like his robotic parts are falling apart. They are turning into rust, there have to be sparks, short circuits everywhere. The situation briefly reminds him of the time where Grif had been run over by a tank, and Simmons had been hovering over him trying to figure out how to keep him alive with Donut wailing in the background and Sarge blabbering about why not to try to change fate’s decision. Simmons realizes how long ago that was when he looks at Grif’s face and sees a brown and a green eye. The sight does not seem that weird anymore. However, the way both of his eyes are glossed over is absolutely terrifying.

Grif has always called Simmons a nerd ever since he found out about his love for comics and sci-fi movies. The cyborg has read so many stories about galactic heroes and he knows how the story goes. He knows the drill. He knows that sometimes a hero dies, and he will sacrifice himself with a determined look on his face and surrounded by companions swearing vengeance.

It is a long time ago since Simmons learned the world is not a comic book, but it has never been so painful obvious before now when Grif’s expression turns fearful and Simmons starts sobbing.

_“Fine. I will try not to make you cry again, fucking cry baby.”_

Grif has promised him that but Grif is a fucking moron who is bleeding out on the floor. Simmons tightens the grip on his hand.

“Simmons-“ Grif’s voice is still wavering, but it’s stronger than before. Simmons’ name becomes a request, and he leans closer to listen.

The yelling begins.

Simmons jolt back in shock and realizes they are still on Hargrove’s ship. There’s a still a fight going on. Something is coming closer. He fumbles around for his Needlers but can’t find them. He must have just thrown him in panic when he saw Grif on the ground. He does not remember that.

Unarmed, Simmons looks at the doorway and prepares for his doom. Their doom. Hopes it will be quick. Perhaps a grenade. A grenade would be nice. Or, well, not nice, but if they could save them any more pain, it would appreciated. To go out with a bang, a huge explosion, like the fucking heroes they are. Could be a good ending. Let the credits roll in.

The shouting reaches its climax, and there are a few more gunshots before everything goes quiet.

Carolina appears, followed by Wash.

Freelancers but not their doom. For once.

Simmons grins – step two fucking complete – and he looks at Grif to tell him, no, to listen to him; it is Grif who had been about to tell him something. And now it was finally quiet enough for him to hear it.

Simmons’ smile falters when he sees that Grif’s eyes are closed. “No, no, no.” He lets go of his hand to slap him on the cheeks. “Come on, come on, you fucking fatass!”

“Put some work into it, Simmons,” Sarge huffs. He’s on his knees, one leg covered in blood. “You call that a slap?” He means it well, Simmons knows that.

Grif remains unresponsive and Simmons’ voice breaks. “No, you fucking don’t, asshole! You can’t fucking nap now. Wake the fuck up!” He’s shaking him forcefully until he is pulled away.

He looks up and sees Wash. Naturally he freezes – “Don’t make me repeat myself”, gunshots, Donut’s still form – but forces the memories away to look at him in desperation. “Wash,” he breathes out, telling himself that this is a fucking good thing. Freelancer knows stuff. They can fix this. “Wash, help him.”

The Freelancer pushes him aside, sees the damaged chest plate, and hesitates for just a second before calling out: “Dr. Grey!”

Simmons crawls away. His palm slips on some of Grif’s blood and he breathes in sharply. Tearing his eyes away from Grif, Simmons looks around the room. It’s different from before the door fell over. More… crowded. Sarge is still aiming his shotgun at the doorway, ready to fire, but luckily holds back when Dr. Grey appears. She eyes him, sees his injured leg, but Wash is waving for her and by the sight of Grif she rushes over.

Carolina is tending to Caboose who is on the ground, crying loud enough for Simmons to hear.Doc is sitting next to him. Closer to the wall is the rest of the Red Team: Donut is leaning heavily against Lopez who has smoke rising in a big cloud from his shoulder.

He can’t see Tucker but he can faintly hear his voice. He must still be in the hallway.

Simmons closes his eyes.

“Captain Simmons? Captain Simmons?”

Jensen is shaking his shoulder. He can recognize her stutter. That’s good. She’s alive. He’s glad.

And so fucking tired.

It takes seconds before he finds the strength to open his eyes. Grif is gone, but the pool of blood tells him that it was not some horrid nightmare. Simmons tries to stand but his Lieutenant holds him back. “He’s on the ship with the others, sir. They’re being treated.” She swallows and doesn’t choke. She’s made so much progress. “Smith says it’ll be alright. He quoted Captain Caboose that ‘if your friend dies, you just give him a new body’. That’s like your prosthesis, right, sir? Dr. Grey has a whole lot those lying around, I’m sure!”

The room is almost empty. Doc is pacing back and forth, muttering words to himself. Lopez’ arm is in the corner of the room. It must have fallen off.

“Captain Simmons?”

“I’m fine.”

His gloves are covered with blood. It’s beginning to dry.

Jensen helps him stand. Guides him back to one of the ships waiting to bring them down on Chorus. The one with Grif has already left as they did not hesitate to bring the seriously injured to the nearest hospital.

Simmons does not even have a limp. He looks over his shoulder to see Doc hovering about the spot where Grif almost died.

“Oh wow. That’s a lot of blood. _Smells like mayhem, muhahaha_!”

* * *

Statistically thinking, there is no way that Simmons could be so lucky. Sure, he pulls out a bullet from his shoulder and another one from his lower leg later that evening, but it had not even hurt. Pros of being a cyborg.

He has no right to complain. Sarge is in surgery. They hope they can save his leg. Donut has cracked ribs and they are keeping him under supervision to make sure his lungs are alright. Tucker had problems getting out of the suit and they are treating his burns. Doc has a broken arm and the painkillers make O’Malley aggressive. They keep a close watch on him. Caboose was shot and had to be wheeled into surgery, but the Blue idiot had only been wailing because Church is dead. Again.

But that has to belong under the category that Grif named ‘Blue Team problems’.

Red Team has enough problems to deal with.

Simmons is sitting in a chair on the hospital floor, staring at the closed door that would lead to the surgery room. Dr. Grey had wheeled Grif in there according to Smith.

The cyborg has just pulled his fingers out of the bullet hole in his leg when Lopez appears. The robot is walking heavily down the hallway, and the exposed panels on his right leg cast blinking light against the floor and walls. His arm is still off and Simmons can see the snapped wires appear from his shoulder.

The robot sits down in the chair on the other side of the small table with the vase containing a fake flower. He stares at Simmons as if he is trying to analyze him. Simmons hopes his tear tracks are not too obvious, but he does not count on it.

“Estás goteando el aceite, idiota.” [You are leaking oil, idiot.]

Simmons clenches his fists. “I know,” he sniffs. It feels like the robot has x-ray vision. “Grif is an idiot.”

“Estaba hablando de ti: no el idiota naranja.”[I was talking about you: not the orange idiot.]

“You don’t have to worry, Lopez.” Simmons is staring at his own lap, mentally repeating the reassurances he has been given. The others would not lie to him. “Dr. Grey is going to fix them.”

“Seriamente, es una pérdida de recursos. Pon un tapón en él.”   [Seriously, it’s a waste of resources. Put a plug into it.]

“Of course I know Grif looked bad. But Dr. Grey is good at her job.”

“Si llorarás, me iré.” [If you cry, I will leave.]

Simmons sniffs. There is a monitor screeching in the distance. It can’t be from Grif’s room, though. He is sitting in front of it: he would know. “It’s going to be alright.”

“¿Sabes dónde mi brazo está? Es necesito para pegar usted.” [Do you know where my arm is? I need it to punch you.]

When Simmons hears the sound of a drop hitting the floor, he looks at the black pool in confusion before remembering the bullet holes in his metal limbs. “Oh. I’m leaking oil.”

“Dios mío.” [Oh my god.]

Simmons has known Lopez for years. He has seen his mechanical insides and knows that there are no eyes behind Lopez’ visor. He has listened to his monotone (and even worse: Spanish) voice in what feels like forever. He knows that the robot cannot be emotional.

Yet, when Lopez’ visor is fixated on him, he cannot help flinch.

He has never seen the robot display such pity before.

* * *

When Simmons wakes up, Lopez is gone. The lights in the hall are slightly dimmed, and just the fact that he is alone in a hallway in a hospital is enough to give Simmons goosebumps. Had Grif been here – no, Grif is here; had Grif been awake and well, he would have loved to hide in the corner and jump at Simmons so he would scream in surprise, not fear.

Simmons berates himself for falling asleep while he slowly opens the door. There is a surgery going on but it is certainly not Grif. The cyborg narrowly avoids a bloody bandage to his face as an angry nurse is yelling at him. He gingerly apologizes as he backs away.

The hospital staff is busy. The day’s battle has been bloody and gruesome, and none of the nurses has the time to inform him of his friends’ progress. They would have told him if Grif had died. Informing relatives and next of kin is not something that can be ignored. There have to be rules about that.

So Simmons carefully enters each room on the floor (among other things, his attempts led him to a delusional Fed who thought he was the Grim Reaper, a sedated Matthews who mumbled something about Grif in his sleep, and Donut who was asking a rather terrified nurse whether his injured ribs could harm his performance (apparently, you need to be able to take very deep breaths in order to be a part of a musical) – at least Donut was alright) and tries not to lose hope.

When he finally finds Grif, his robotic eye only shows him static. He clings to the door’s handle to prevent himself from blacking out.

There are no nurses to tell him whether it is alright for him to be here, but Simmons would have told them to fuck off had they tried to hold him back. Fuck the rules. That’s right: Captain Dick Simmons lives life dangerously –

-Had Grif been awake, he would have snorted by now.

But Grif is asleep. He’s in a hospital bed with a pained expression on his face and is hooked up to so many machines that Simmons almost feel like he is the most human being in the room.

Simmons stares at him until his eyes hurt. “You fucking idiot,” he mutters under his breath. “You fucking promised to stay alive.”

“ _Well_ ,” a memory of Grif whispers to him from the back of his head. “ _I suck at keeping promises_.”

“Fuck you,” Simmons answers him.

* * *

The day after, Simmons tries to come up with a theory. Grif has survived so many dangerous situations by now. He has been shot at by Sarge numerous times, he has been run over by a tank, he has fallen from a tower, he has been dragged over the edge of a cliff, he has survived a wreck, he survived all their crazy plans to save teammates or attack the Blues – basically, he is as hard to kill as Church.

Or, well, he can’t really use that comparison anymore. But Church is Church and he is bound to come back eventually. At least, this is what they should tell Caboose. Simmons is tired of hearing him cry.

His headache is already big enough.

Simmons rubs his temples and goes through the facts again. If Grif has survived all that, chances are that he’ll survive this too. His luck has kept him alive so far.

But… but on the other hand, it could also mean that his luck is running out. He has spent so much of it by now, perhaps there is nothing left.

Simmons clutches the bedsheet. Those are the two possibilities.

_“Just make up your fucking mind whether you want me dead or not.”_

“You are not going to fucking die,” Simmons tells him sternly.

There is a tube filling Grif’s mouth to make sure he is breathing. An external pacemaker keeps his heart beating. Simmons is refraining himself from holding his hand in fear of pulling one of the many needles attached to his arms.

 _“What happened to_ ‘ _I’ll gladly poison Grif’s next meal’?”_ memory Grif asks him _. “Since when the fuck do you care?”_

“Shut up.”

A nurse arrives to change Grif’s bandages. As she finishes her works, she looks up at Simmons with a worried frown and asks him if he would accept the offer of therapy. They would somehow find the time for a psychologist to see him. She even tells him that it would not be Dr. Grey.

Still, Simmons declines.

When the nurse has left, he wonders if he had actually replied to Grif out loud.

* * *

Five days after they were rescued on the ship, everyone is busy. Carolina tries to ignore her grief of losing Epsilon by drowning herself in the work it takes to track Hargrove down. Son of a bitch escaped the ship. Simmons almost offered to help her the other day but never found the strength to leave the chair next to Grif’s bed.

Tucker is trying to help Caboose who is either crying or wailing out words like “Emptiness” and “Loneliness”. Wash is with him because of course he is.

Doc is wandering around on the hospital floor, either offering the patients painkillers to deal with their wounds or threatening to cut their limbs off in order to force-feed them.

Sarge is learning how to use his crutch as a weapon. He makes Lopez pick it up whenever he drops it by accident.

Donut has given himself the duty of making sure that every patient on the hospital has fresh flowers on their bed table. Simmons is not sure why he gets them from but does not ask. The pink soldier spends a lot of time with Grif or Caboose who are still bound to a hospital bed.

Whenever Donut is in Grif’s room, Simmons is not sure what to say or do. The younger soldier’s worried eyes settle on him as much as Grif who is the actual patient. Sometimes Simmons pretends to fall asleep in order to avoid questions. Other times he actually falls asleep. He has felt very tired since the accident.

Today he is not even in Grif’s room. He is walking across the New Republic HQ and feels out of place with all the joy around him. He can’t blame the soldiers. They won, they fucking won, and the war is over. They can finally put down their weapons. They can rebuild.

Thanks to their heroes.

Simmons is stopped four times by grateful soldiers who want to thank him for his part in all of this. The cyborg stutters, looks away and almost run as fast as his legs can carry him in order to escape their attention.

Still, it is still better than the ones who don’t thank him. The ones who briefly stare at him, not in awe, but in pity.

Simmons makes his way to Grif’s room as quickly as he can but hesitates when he is in front of the door. He breathes in slowly, doesn’t knock, and steps inside.

It doesn’t surprise him that the door isn’t locked – Grif isn’t the type who cares about that. However, he is shocked to see that he isn’t alone in the room.

Bitters is on the floor, legs crossed, with an open box in front of him. It is filled to the rim with bags of candy, chocolates bars and packages with snack cakes. Simmons guesses that Grif has told him about his secret stash. The Lieutenant has probably done his share in stealing treasures in order to keep the box filled.

“What the fuck do you want?” Bitters snaps at him. There is chocolate around his mouth from a half-eaten chocolate bar and dark rings under his eyes.

“I- Uhm…” Simmons does not know the Lieutenant well enough to comfort him. Even if he did, he would still have no words for the situation. He ran out of reassurances to tell himself days ago. His eyes dart around the room. Grif’s bed is still unmade. His laundry is all over the floor. There is a package of cigarettes on his bed table. Simmons swallows. “I need this.” He reaches out for a pack of Oreos that Grif has kept for a special occasion. He clasps it close to his chest.

“Whatever,” Bitters snarls and looks down at the snack in his hands. Simmons lets him eat. Emotional eating seems like a reasonable way of coping with grief these days.

* * *

Simmons places the Oreos next to the flowers Donut has arranged for Grif. The pink soldier is not present at the moment and Simmons is grateful. There is a steady beeping from the machines keeping Grif alive.

After staring at Grif for a moment, Simmons shifts his feet. He reaches for the package and rips it open with his mouth. He puts it back on the bed table and hopes that perhaps the smell is enough for Grif to wake up. He would do so much for a snack.

When the clock says it is midnight, Grif still has not moved. An hour later, Simmons has eaten all the cookies. Crumbs get stuck between the joints in his metal hand.

The Oreos don’t taste good. They feel like dirt in his mouth as he looks at Grif.

Simmons spends the rest of the night crouched over the toilet.

When he has finally recovered enough to stumble back to the bed table, he does not dare to check the expiry date. It would not surprise him if Grif has kept the package since Basic. Fucking idiot.

* * *

No one tells him about Grif’s condition. He does not ask. The others barely look at him.

Only Donut is not afraid of talking to him, but even he avoids the subject. Sarge has visited the room once but seemed extremely uncomfortable near the unresponsive Grif. He is only there long enough to tell him that that he is a “Lazy dirtbag who should wake up instead of trying to avoid duties with an extended nap” and orders Simmons and Donut to eat and sleep so they are prepared for any retaliation attack from the Blues.

Simmons has not talked to the Blues since the day on the ship. He has not sought them out.

The machines surrounding Grif could tell him more, but Simmons does not try to read them. The rising and falling of Grif’s chest is enough for him.

Grif’s expression has softened during his stay in the hospital. He does not seem to be in pain, and Simmons finds comfort in that. His skin is still pale, though. Almost looks grey. He just looks… wrong. He does not even seem to be napping – Grif always slept with a smile on his face.

Whatever smile Grif may have given him is destroyed by the breathing tube.

Simmons hopes that Grif has nice dreams. He better be enjoying this nap. When he wakes up, Simmons is going to punch him. Hard.

It is extremely evil of him to put him through this. Especially when he promised to stay safe. True, Simmons had also promised to watch his ass, but this could not be his fault.

Simmons cannot bear it if that is the case.

* * *

It’s been a week and looking at Grif breathe – or, more exactly, looking at the machines breathe for Grif – has become quite boring. Comforting, but boring.

Simmons makes a list of things to do when Grif wakes up. To punch Grif is on the top of the list. It is followed by ‘scold him for getting fucking shot in the fucking chest’ with the side note ‘remember to include insults’.

The list goes slightly softer the longer it gets. He is also going to hug Grif. That is totally acceptable after a near-death experience. He is also going to offer him to change his bandages. It’s not like the fatass is going to do it himself. Simmons will do it to make sure there will be no infections. He’s going to watch his ass.

There is a check called ‘ ~~heartfelt revelations~~ / ~~touchy fucking feeling shit~~ / ~~it’s time for a fucking moment, so suck it up, Grif!~~ / tell Grif you don’t hate him ( ~~and perhaps more. Maybe. Make it up as it goes. Fuck. Don’t let Donut see the list!~~ )’.

Simmons has a lot of time and the list goes on. When Grif wakes up, they are going on a trip in a warthog. Simmons will drive if Grif is still not up for it. When Grif wakes up, Simmons is going to bring him his secret stash (or what is left of it after Bitters’ raid) and he will let Grif eat it. All of it. Of course, once he is out of the hospital, Simmons is going to put him on that diet again. But right now, Grif is looking oddly small in the hospital bed. He could use some snacks. When Grif wakes up, Simmons is going to sit with him in the shade. They can talk about all the things they are wondering about, and if Grif falls asleep that’s alright. The war is over. They can have their break.

Simmons knows that Grif is going to love it. It has, after all, been his strategy number one ever since he got stuck in Blood Gulch.

_“I’m just saying it could work. Stay in the background, eat some snacks, and chill out until the war is over.”_

If only he had fucking followed that strategy. Simmons finishes his list with a smile on his face. There are a lot of things to do when Grif wakes up. It’s good that they finally have the time. Of course there is Hargrove to deal with, but Grif should not have to worry about that. The others can take care of that. Once he is located, Simmons will naturally be a part of the attack. Hargrove has a lot to answer for.

Simmons keeps the list in his pocket so he has something to hold onto when he panics.

* * *

Three days later, the paper is very crumbled. It’s the first time Simmons finds enough courage to ask Dr. Grey about his condition, and she does not give him the answers he wants.

She has taken off her helmet, revealing that her eyes are a mix between blue and grey so that they almost match the trims on her armor. She keeps her voice even, very professional, but her tone leaves Simmons with the feeling that he is the patient and not Grif.

She talks about donated organs and high risk of infection and a wound that won’t heal properly, and at some point Simmons stops listening and walks out of the room instead. She does not follow. Fucking bullshit, he thinks to himself, and briefly wonders why the voice in his head has begun to sound like Grif.

Simmons goes to Grif’s room and sits next to Donut who tells him of this idea he has got. When Grif awakens, he wants to bake a cake. He spreads out his arms to show the size and explains how he will use different colors of glaze. He wants it to be orange and maroon and light-ish red and standard protocol red and brown and purple and blue and sapphire and whatever the fuck Tucker’s armor is and grey and yellow and teal.

While Donut talks about his rainbow cake, Simmons stares out of the window and Grif doesn’t wake up.

* * *

It’s been almost two weeks when Simmons realizes something in going to happen. Another machine is attached to Grif, and the room is beginning to feel very crowded with all the beeps and whir. Simmons has brought a book with him to entertain himself. He is busy rereading it for the fifth time (he does not want to leave Grif and he does not trust Donut to fetch him another book – he’ll probably just print out his stupid Harry Potter fanfiction) when two nurses come to check on Grif. Change his bandages. Fill the IV bags. Something.

They tell him to ignore them. Simmons can’t. There have been a lot of nurses and medics in the room lately. They are destroying his privacy. Even Dr. Grey was here the other day. She had been humming a song while reading the monitors to write down notes about Grif’s progress. When she had looked over her shoulder to face Simmons, the cyborg had hurried out of the room. He does not want to talk with her if she cannot give him good news for once.

When the nurses leave, Simmons pulls up his legs to sit crouched on the chair. He rests his head on his arms and breathes in sharply.

Grif is doing worse.

Grif is doing worse and Simmons hates him for it. He would have punched him had Grif not looked like would fade away if someone as much as touched him.

Simmons wrings his hands and accidently cuts himself on the edge from the bullet hole that he had received back when they had rescued Epsilon – again.

“Fuck,” he mutters and stands up to find something to wipe the blood off with. This is a fucking hospital, there should be bandages and plasters. He isn’t fast enough and drops of blood manages to hit his maroon t-shirt. That will leave stains. He will have to ask Donut for a way to remove it.

The cyborg looks at his metal hand as if it had betrayed him. “Fuck,” he snarls again. “Why the fuck didn’t I fucking fix that fucking piece of shit – you, you _fucking_ asshole! You son of a bitch, how could you be so fucking stupid  to get fucking shot, you fucking dumbass, you –“

Simmons lashes out and tips over Donut’s vase. It shatters against the floor. Simmons’ head snaps upwards to apologize to Grif but realizes how useless it would be.

Grif is still fucking asleep. Of course.

Donut arrives some minutes after. He must have heard the shouting. He does not ask about the vase but immediately begins to pick up the pieces. He notices the blood still dripping from Simmons’ hand. “Aw man, bloodstains are the worst. You have to rub it so hard –“

“Shut up, Donut.”

To his credit, the pink soldier follows orders well.

* * *

Simmons tosses the blame around like a hot potato. He blames Grif for getting himself shot. He blames himself for not watching Grif’s ass well enough. He blames Hargrove, of course, because that man has to be the biggest asshole Simmons has ever met. Well, he has not exactly met him yet. And when he does, it won’t be pretty.

Finally, out of habit, he settles on blaming the Blues.

It is their fault, after all. In some way. All this can be tracked back to fucking Blue Team problems.

_“I’m just saying that if I have to die for something, it shouldn’t have to be fucking Freelancers.”_

Grif has been so fucking right. If the Blues had just… stopped being so fucking Blue, all of this would not have happened. If there had been no Freelancers and no AI’s and none of all the other fucked-up things that the other team had brought into the mess. If the Blues just had been relatively normal, Simmons and Grif could have been sitting in Blood Gulch now, bickering about the sun or cigarettes or something.

Simmons nurses the feeling of bitterness because it is better than all the other emotions raging inside of him at the moment.

The Blues are not helping themselves with their behavior. They had not even fucking visited Grif.

Caboose could be somewhat forgiven since he has been hospitalized as well. But still, Simmons wished they could shut up about Church. Church is dead and so what? Boo-fucking-hoo.

Alright, so his goodbye speech had been rather emotional and had left Simmons with a lump in his throat. But this was Church – give it a year and he would be back in another shape. They should just put him in a computer so he could not move. That way, Caboose would not lose him again. Problem solved.

But this is Grif. Grif is not code. You cannot make a fucking backup of him. He is flesh and blood and when he is injured it hurts him.

Tucker and Wash had stayed away as well. At first they had had their hands full with calming Caboose down, but that excuse isn’t helping them now. Caboose is doing better. He can walk around now, which of course isn’t always a good thing, and Dr. Grey has spent a lot of time with him. She is interested in his mental health, and Simmons is sure that is a project that can keep her busy for a while.

Simmons suspects the Blues aren’t avoiding Grif. They are avoiding Simmons.

_“You know what, Simmons? Ever since I entered the military it seems pretty clear the world is divided into Red and Blue and assholes.”_

Well, apparently you can be both a Blue and an asshole. Simmons is sure that Sarge will support his theory.

When Tucker finally steps inside Grif’s room, he does not look at Simmons and Simmons does not look at him. The cyborg only watches him from the corner of his eye. Tucker is in body armor but holds his helmet in his hands. He is looking at Grif with a frown on his face.

“So, Carolina thinks we might be close at locating Hargrove. The fucker kept all his files in that giant ass ship he forgot to bring with him when he ran off.”

Right. The ship where they had all almost died. Simmons wonders if Grif’s blood is still staining the floor. He does not intend to head up here to find out.

“Well, since you managed to hack Command’s computer, we though you might give it a try now since Church-“

He breathes in sharply. Simmons does not answer.

“You’re not fucking helping him by sitting here.”

Simmons tightens his grip on the railing of Grif’s bed. “Just go away,” he mutters under his breath.

“Do you want to make the fucker pay or not?”

“Just fuck off, Blue,” Simmons tells him quietly. It is enough. Tucker flinches and takes a step backwards. He looks at Grif who is barely visible under the blanket and all the tubes and wires. His glance falls upon Simmons again.

Simmons is known for being the smart guy among the group of soldiers (which doesn’t really say much, but hey, he’ll take it) but Tucker looks at him with an expression Simmons has not seen since he was a kid. Like Tucker knows something that Simmons can’t figure out. There’s pity in the Blue soldier’s eyes. Simmons wants to throw something in his face.

Finally, Tucker backs off. It is first when he has left the room that Simmons notices Wash. The Freelancer is leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. Simmons can’t read his expression. He has never been able to.

Simmons glares daggers at him until Wash turns around to follow Tucker.

* * *

19 days after the attack on Hargrove’s ship, Donut and Sarge silently slips inside the room. Their leader is uncharacteristically silent and it should have freaked Simmons out, but the cyborg does not as much as turn his head.

He has been staring intensely at Grif ever since he realized the nurses had not been there to change his IV bags at their usual time.

Donut sniffs and Simmons clenches his fists so hard that he can hear something crack.

_“When your lungs give up, I’ll be at your hospital bed saying ‘I told you so’!”_

Simmons doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say a word. Grif dies quietly. There is no last sigh or movement.

The heart monitor just starts screaming followed by Donut’s strangled sobs.

The sound is too loud. It pierces its way through his brain – something breaks.

Simmons stands up so abruptly that the chair’s legs scrapes against the floor. When he turns to leave the room, Sarge briefly puts his hands on his shoulder, but Simmons brushes it off. As he reaches the hallway, he can see the team of medics rushing towards the room.

Simmons isn’t stupid. He walks out of the hospital.

The HQ is strangely silent. Everything seems muted and Simmons’ breathing echoes in his ears. The ringing is there too, in the back of his head. Simmons wonders if he has gone insane or if one of the many systems Sarge has installed in him has crashed. He decides that he does not care. There are many ways to be broken.

Even when he pushes the final door open and steps outside into the fresh evening air, it’s still there. He sits on one of the wooden delivery boxes that are yet to be picked up and carried to the storage room. The high-pitched whine of the flat-line is still ringing in his head, even out here.

Simmons’ robotic eye can’t cry. It doesn’t have that feature. But his human eye remains dry as well as he stares straight ahead.

At some point he closes his eyes. He first opens them when someone is shaking his shoulders. “Captain Simmons? Captain Simmons?”

Simmons’ eyes snaps open and he frowns when he stares into Jensen’s visor. He does not want her to be here. She’s a good girl, but damn it all, she needs to fuck off. She can’t do anything.

He has opened his mouth to rasp out something, but then Jensen shifts and reveals the person behind her. She grabs her by the wrist and drags her closer.

Simmons blinks. He wants to lean his head back and let out a painful laughter because this is fucking bullshit, but his body refuses to move.

Simmons is not sure if there’s a God up there with a plan for them and stuff, but if he exists, he fucking hates Simmons.

Church’s last words echoe in his ears like a glitched recording. Ain’t that a bitch.

Kaikaina Grif has cut her hair. It ends below her ears now.

“Hey, you’re the cyborg dude! I remember you!”

Jensen’s glance jumps from Kai to Simmons. “I brought her here, Captain Simmons. She just arrived with a ship – she saw the transmissions. The hospital will let in family members, and I thought – I knew I had to get her here immediately, sir. I haven’t informed Mrs. Kimball yet.”

So Jensen knows what was going to happen today… Simmons wonders how many knows.

Jensen is staring at Simmons as she waits for him to respond. When he doesn’t, she connects the dots. Her hand flies to the piece of her visor where her mouth would have been and she steps backwards in shock.

“What?” Kai asks. She looks older, but not that much. Her eyes sparkle with childish excitement. “Did you donate your tongue to him or something? I told big bro he was going to hurt himself when he licked Oreos like that. I offered to show him this really good method I use but he never listens to me.”

Simmons stares at her and has no idea of what to tell her.

_“Would have sucked to come all the way here only to find big bro dead.”_

He has no words.

Jensen gives it a try. “I… Private – Private Grif.” Simmons can hear her struggle with the name. To hear it said out loud causes a jab of pain. “I’m so so sorry.”

Simmons sees her freeze for just a moment before she can control her expression. She sets her jaw. “Hey, fuckfaces. My brother isn’t dead. Like, show me the corpse and I will believe it.”

Simmons flinches.

“Look, when Dex was fourteen he got run over by a truck. When they pulled him out, he was still alive plus he had somehow gotten his hands on a bag of chips. Big bro can’t die, so fuck you.”

Kai’s eyes are brown like her brother’s. They look a lot alike.

When no one replies to her, Kai stomps a foot. She looks intensely at Simmons who doesn’t move before she suddenly storms into the hospital wing. They can hear her yell at a poor nurse before the door swings closed. “Hey, asshole, tell me where my brother is!”

Jensen hesitates before hurrying after her. “I’m so sorry, Captain,” she whispers before leaving him alone.

Simmons does not answer.

The Grif family has taken so much abuse that his brain cannot comprehend it. A few minutes later, Kai screams loud enough for the sound to reach Simmons. It mixes with the ringing inside his head.

Simmons buries his face in his hands and damns it all.

_“But guess what, Simmons – life is fucking unfair. Don’t expect anything from it, don’t think you can ever earn something. It doesn’t work that way. So suck it up.”_

Simmons wonders why Kai is here. Why she is here _now_. Why she wasn’t here weeks ago before everything went to hell. Why she was not here just an hour ago so she could at least have held Grif’s hand before-

Simmons wonders why Grif isn’t here. Why he isn’t here when he’s always been here. Why he isn’t here when he promised to stay alive, when Simmons promised to watch his back. Why he isn’t here when he had fought so hard all his life and he fucking deserved –

Simmons wonders why he is here. Why he is here when Grif isn’t. Why he is here when he broke his fucking promise. Why he is here on a little planet so far away from home with an artificial heart that managed to become broken anyway. Why he is here when in a few days his organs will be put in the ground. Why he is still here when he is broken.

Statistically thinking, Simmons should be happy to be alive, but he just isn’t sure why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery warning: Major character death.
> 
> Oh, hiii, guuuyys! *looks down in shame*Yep, I ended it like this. To my defense, this chapter was the originally meant to be the only piece – then I realized I needed some build-up for this moment and suddenly I had planned 12 other chapters. This is after all a gift to my dear friend NJ, and we have a long tradition of writing sad stories for each other (it’s how we show love!). I really love writing angst and tragedy (I show my love to a character by killing or hurting them), and I hope you still found it in your hearts to enjoy the last chapter.  
> The title for this chapter changed so many times. At first it was “Ain’t That a Bitch” since I focused on the (late) arrival of Kai. Then it became “Statistically Thinking” which I was quite satisfied with, but then it hit me – “Do You Ever Wonder Why We’re Here?” – it was so perfect to end it the place where it began.
> 
> The observant reader has noticed that the 12 sentences in italic are dialogue from the 12 earlier chapters.
> 
> As this is the final chapter, I really want to thank you for all the support. All the kudos and comments – they all gave me the inspiration that made it possible to finish this story in only a little more than a month. Your support for this story and its themes actually gave me enough courage to finally come out to my family – I cannot thank you enough for giving me the strength to do so. 
> 
> As a final note, I hope you will stick around for more of my work. Right now, the plan is to finish my other in-progress story here (which you are welcome to read). But I am currently planning a longer one-shot with a lot of Red Team –feels, and then I have come up with this wonderful idea for a longer story focusing on Grif and Simmons that I can’t wait to write. This won’t be the last of me, and I hope to see you again.


	14. It Keeps Me Up At Night (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif always left behind messes that Simmons had to take care of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a terrible person. I realized this when I reread this story (Yes, I read my own story… To entertain myself. I am horrible). I just felt so empty when I realized just where I had left poor Simmons. He might as well have killed himself, and I would hate for that to happen. So my brain unconsciously came up with my versions of what should have happened afterwards. I wrote them down. It slowly turned into a chapter.  
> Since I have a document filled with ideas that may or may not turn into stories, I actually had the note “Simmons takes care of Kai after Grif dies” with the summary “Simmons isn’t quite sure why Kai hasn’t burned down the place yet, and he isn’t quite sure he hasn’t just let it happen”. Then I realized it was the ending to this story.  
> I am so nervous publishing this. I am not sure if an epilogue would mess this story up, but it kinda just wrote itself, and I hated just letting it rot among my other documents when I think that some of you would love this extra chapter.

Simmons is pretty sure it’s madness. He’s not just talking about the thoughts that keep lurking in the back of his head or the way his eyes mysteriously starts to tear up at random times. He’s talking about this situation as a reasonable treatment.

If he could call it that. It’s not like any of them are getting better. But they are still alive. That has to count for something. Especially when it comes to Kai.

It isn’t because she has a death-wish or something. She just lacks a filter to keep bad ideas from entering her brain. So Simmons keeps an eye on her and makes sure she does not succeed in raiding their medical supplies.

He is not quite sure who allowed him to be her handler, if you could call it that. It seemed like madness. To let a broken person be taken care of by an even more broken person. Not just broken, more like shattered. But it makes Simmons leave his bed and gives his mind something to settle on.

After all, _he_ would want his sister to stay alive and well.

‘Well’ is a relative term.

But Simmons follows her around, makes sure she doesn’t overdose herself on the painkillers she uses to dull her headaches, he lends her his metallic shoulder to cry on, and when she knocks on his door in the middle of the night, he lets her in.

The last thing hasn’t happened often. In fact, it has only happened once. Now.

Simmons has the suspicion that she sometimes sneaks out to visit Tucker. He hopes that it is because they used to share a base, that it is because they are friends, that she is only there to talk. So far, no accidents have happened.

Perhaps it is because he regularly makes her pee on a test, just to be sure. Prepared.  After all, _he_ warned Simmons about what could happen. If Kai became pregnant while drowning in a lake, Simmons does not dare to think of what can happen by letting her stay near Tucker.

But tonight she comes to his room and she knocks on his door and Simmons opens it. She is in her nightgown, swaddled by one of her brother’s old t-shirts. “I can’t sleep,” she admits, brushing her hair behind her ear. “So I figured we could do something fun.”

Simmons doesn’t choke. Kai doesn’t smile.

The silence lasts just a second too long, and Simmons is just about to become worried but then Kai explains. “I wanna cook.”

That is new, but not surprising. Simmons blinks. “It’s 02.34,” he says, his cyborg eye revealing the numbers at the corner of his vision.

“Yeah. Whatever. Stove still works, probably.” She turns on her heel, already marching towards the kitchen area, and Simmons sighs. He follows her because he has to, and he seriously doubts he’ll eat anything tonight. He doesn’t really feel hungry. The sight of food just makes his stomach twist. He should probably check that out, but that would mean facing Doctor Grey and he isn’t too keen on that. Besides, he really does not want to go near the hospital wing.

His steps are a bit heavier than Kai’s, a bit more slow, as if he is trying to make it obvious to the world that he is just a tagalong, and by the time he reaches the kitchen, Kai is already putting a pan on the stove.

Kai is humming a melody for herself, and Simmons leans against the wall to watch. That is the only reason why he is here, after all.

There is a clanking when Kai searches for something in the cupboards, and Simmons barely registers how she finds egg and flower and something green that is probably some sort of vegetable since the citizens of Chorus now finally have the peace to create big proper gardens. The cyborg dozes off because it’s the middles of the night and he can’t remember when he last had a good night’s sleep.

It is not because he is plagued by nightmares, but his dreams are filled with memories, and those hurt even more.

“Want to lick it?”

Simmons blinks. Kai’s voice is flirtatious as always, but her face lacks the childish smile and she is holding out a spoon covered in brownish dough with small white sprinkles that Simmons suspects are pieces of egg shells. He shakes his head.

Kai goes back to humming, and Simmons watches mesmerized as her short locks of hair swings to the rhythm while she leans over the stove. For a moment he forgets everything else but how black her hair is and her darkened skin, and just the sheer fact that she woke up in the middle of the night to get something to eat.

It all serves as a painful reminder, and Simmons tries his best to tear himself away from the thoughts, but Kai has her back turned to him, and all Simmons can see is the orange t-shirt and the black hair and the tan skin and the smell of food is tickling his nose.

He is reminded of everything that he has lost, and Simmons tears up.

Had he been aware of the situation, he would have blamed the smoke.

As it turns out, Kai can’t cook, and the others comes running when the smoke detector starts beeping.

“Oops,” she says, her smile fake and her eyes empty, and there is brown mush covering her arms. The kitchen looks no better. Simmons sighs deeply, runs a hand over his face and tells Donut that he fell asleep by accident.

Tucker, Wash and Kimball are with the pink soldier. The others… Well, Simmons isn’t the only one who isn’t doing that great.

They are not in any real trouble, and Simmons is very much aware of that. Hell, Kai could burn down the entire HQ and people would take one glance at her tired, cracked expression and they would let it slip.

At least Kai did not burn down the kitchen. Tucker has an arm around her shoulder, briefly telling Simmons that he will take her to her room, and Simmons’ stomach twists because Tucker is friends with Kai, and Simmons isn’t. Simmons is her handler and Kai tolerates him, and their relationship won’t develop any further because none of them are in the mood to make friends.

Wash follows them, and Donut promises he will take care of the mess, and that leaves Simmons alone with Kimball as he shuffles his way to his room.

She slows her pace to walk next to him. “Simmons,” she says gently, causing him to lift his glance from the floor. “Have you considered therapy?”

Simmons thinks of Doctor Grey and her opera singing and of the way his father’s face reddened when he yelled at him and how the first shovelful of dirt looked on the casket. “I, uh… I guess? Not really? No? I mean, I think, well, it should help. Right?”

He is not sure that he needs therapy. A mechanist, maybe. The panels in his chest will sometimes start beeping and his solution so far has been to punch them until they shut up.

He is, however, pretty sure that Kai could benefit from therapy. So he goes along with it to set a good example, but he does quietly ask if they see someone who isn’t Doctor Grey. She’s a genius, he does not doubt that, she has proven herself, but he can’t look at her face without thinking of the day that she told him the truth and he has done so much to forget that episode.

And so they are sent to Miss Vinter. They have lasted two weeks without a psychologist, but it only feels like one (and that is already an eternity), since the first week is a blur. He does not remember much of funeral and he does not try to. If the thoughts come too close, Simmons mentally pushes them to the back of his head before they linger and he locks them up in the area of his brain where his insanity is waiting to break loose.

The only thing he remembers from the first week is how his feet unconsciously led him to the hospital room every morning, only to remember what had happened as he stood in the hallway, and then he had a mental breakdown in the corner of the hospital where Donut would come fetch him when he found out. He would spend the afternoons drunk. At least he thinks so, judging by the number of empty bottles that are still in his room.

Surprisingly, his afternoons with Vinter are the best part of the day. Her office is very bare, only a desk with her papers and her own chair, while the patient gets the couch. Chorus is slowly rebuilding but the scars of the war are obvious. Vinter does not wear a uniform but always shows her face and she expects the patient to do the same. Something about expressions being a big deal. Simmons is not sure of his emotionless metal side of his face is a disappointment.

Her face reveals that she is very young, somewhere in her twenties, and Simmons has the growing suspicion that are psychologists on Chorus are just people that others deemed good listeners and then slapped a badge on them when the war dragged out.

She lets him decide where to begin, and for the first time ever Simmons has no difficulties talking about his past. He tells her about his mother, his upbringing, how he was bullied in school, how his father would yell and sometimes hit him, and all the reasons why he joined the war in the first place. It is surprisingly easy. It is as if the pain has dulled.

Because the real pain, the real problem, is a sore wound filled with puss and it hurt if they come too close, so they both avoid the subject without even mentioning _his_ name.

Simmons tells her about his father-issues because that is a problem that should keep a psychologist busy for a while. They might not even find the time to bring up _him_ in the next month.

“Have you had any contacts with your parents since you left?” she asks him, gently, and she smiles at him.

Simmons thinks about the time in Basic where he sent his father a letter that was never answered, and he goes with, “No. Not… No.”

“Would you like to regain contact with them?”

“I don’t… I don’t know if they are even alive.” He thinks about his mother’s tired face and the way his father’s brows would furrow in irritation the moment he stepped inside the door. “And with the transmissions Epsilon made… I mean, they have to know that I’m here.”

“And if they tried to contact you?”

Simmons remember a conversation he had long time ago, one he does not dare to dwell on at the moment, and he answers, “I’d tell my father to fuck off.”

The afternoons with Vinter are quiet and calm, and Simmons goes through them without tears or just a sign of a meltdown. Vinter writes a lot of notes, but that’s what psychologists do, right?

It’s what happens before and after the meetings that is tearing his mind apart.

To put it simple – life sucks dicks.

* * *

It begins two days after his first talk with Vinter, when he is on his way back to his room where he is planning to sit on his bed and stare at the wall the rest of the day, when he stumbles into Donut. Nothing unusual about that. Simmons has been stumbling into a lot of people lately. Mainly because he has no idea of where he is going anymore.

But this time Donut is carrying a mop and a bucket, which Simmons learns is filled with water after some of it splashes against his legs, leaving the lower part of his pants soaked. “Oh, sorry, Simmons!” Donut smiles at him, but it doesn’t really reach his eyes. Simmons has to appreciate it, since Donut is the only one who has tried to wear a happy expression since… well, since things went to hell.

“It’s…” Simmons about to say ‘fine’ but the word doesn’t really belong in his world anymore. Nothing is really fine. Simmons sighs. “Don’t worry about it, Donut.” He lowers his glance and takes in the sight of the cleaning tools. He cannot help but raise his eyebrow in wonder. Later, he really wishes he had just walked away.

Donut’s smile becomes even more strained, if that’s possible. “Wellll,” he says, drawing out the word as if he does not want to continue. “While Bitters did eat his stash, Grif –“ Simmons flinches and Donut looks apologetic, but continues nonetheless, “managed to successfully hide some of his snacks. Some people have started to complain about the smell.” His expression has almost cracked now, and Simmons watches with interest how his eyes begin to tear up. “And you know me. I don’t mind getting down on my knees to do the dirty work.”

It’s more than a month ago since the attack on Hargrove’s ship. It’s been nearly three weeks since Simmons last visited _his_ room. Whatever was left behind in there is probably rotten to the core.

Donut tilts his head. “Do you want to help me? I have to sort out which things to keep.”

Simmons wants to keep it all. He wants the room to remain untouched which is the reason he hasn’t visited it yet. The only reason he nods and follows Donut is to make sure that most of the things stay where they belong. Simmons knows that resources are scarce and they probably need the space, but the room should not belong to them. It already has an owner and to see someone else walk out of it is just wrong.

Whoever complained wasn’t wrong about the smell. It hits Simmons the moment he steps inside the room and leaves him stunned while Donut kneels down to search under the bed.

Simmons stares blankly at the laundry on the floor before he somehow managed to stumble his way to the corner of the room and slips down heavily on the bed. Donut proudly declares that he has found the culprit, an expired box of snack cakes that had been pushed to the furthest corner underneath the bed, but Simmons has gone deaf and reaches out to grab the abandoned pack of cigarettes on the night desk.

He moves his hands to his lap, staring down at the package with bowed head, and he gently caresses it with his human fingers.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Donut sniffle but the younger soldier leaves him alone and instead starts to clean the floor.

Simmons clutches the package tightly, staring blindly as the realization slowly begins to sink in. That the room is supposed to be cleaned out. That no one will come to claim these things. That they don’t have an owner anymore. That these cigarettes will never be smoked because _he_ isn’t coming back.

“Simmons?” Donut asks worriedly, and the cyborg becomes aware that he is shaking like crazy, heaving after breath, and he barely registers the fact that he is having a panic attack before he empties his stomach on the floor.

He wants to blame the smell, but honestly, Simmons feels _sick_ to the stomach. He mumbles an apology to Donut and races for the exit, stumbling over his own legs and with the pack of cigarettes in his hand.

At least Donut has the mop ready.

* * *

The next blow to the stomach comes only a few days later, when they finally officially gather their squads. Everything has been chaos after the attack, and while Wash has tried to watch over the troops, the Lieutenants have been dealing with the mess so far.

It’s Tucker who asks Simmons if he wants to come along, expression cautious as he catches up with him after breakfast. Simmons is aware that he has snapped at the Blues more often than he should lately, but at least Tucker does not seem that pissed about it anymore. “They’re really up for it,” Tucker says, referring to the Lieutenants and the remaining soldiers. Some have dropped their weapons since the attack, focusing on rebuilding, but others are set to carry out the last attack. “They want the fucker dead as much as we do. I mean, if you’re up for it.”

“Yeah,” Simmons says and swallows. “Yeah.”

His troop is there to greet him, saluting him the moment he steps inside the training room. “It’s good to see you, sir,” Jensen tells him, her lisp very present. Of course Simmons has seen them after the attack. He had accidently met them in the hallways, avoiding their glances before moving on, and his entire squad was present at the funeral. But this is the first time he has to actually face them and he is so damn grateful for his helmet.

Most of his girls survived the attack, a few have decided to take the opportunity and stop being soldiers, but most of them are there, and they are awaiting his orders with straight backs and lifted chins.

Simmons can see Tucker greeting his team, Palomo rushing up to stand next to him. Caboose is there too, but while the Blue soldier has recovered from the gunshot, the mental wounds have not healed. He is ready to fight because Church told them to do so, but he relies heavily on Smith or Wash, who both stay close, in order to command his troop. At least some of his friends are alive.

The cyborg does his best to not to turn his head and see Gold Team, but he cannot help it and he sees the gold-trimmed soldiers standing close to each other in a lonesome group. Some of them are shifting their feet, most of them just stare at the ground. They remind him of the starving litter of puppies that someone had dropped in a cardboard box with the letters ‘FREE’ written over it with a black pen and that Simmons had seen when he was a child and his father had grabbed his hand and forcefully pulled him along.

That problem has to be dealt with, and Simmons does not want to, but he is given no choice when they hear the yelling. Tucker catches his glance and gives him a nod, and together they follow the noise until they round a corner and sees Bitters yelling at Kimball.

The young soldier is leaning forward to get close to her face, and his entire body is tensed up in an agitated position.

And Simmons knows something is really wrong.

Bitters never yells. He is like a poor animal the world has backed up into a corner, leaving him with a permanent snarl and his hair standing on end. He uses sarcasm to push people away, he has the coldest stare that Simmons has ever seen, and his stubbornness would have caused Simmons to pull out his hair in frustration had he been his Captain.

Bitters never yells because he does not need to.

So Simmons wonders (and fears) why it is necessary now.

“I _know_ that!” Bitters snarls, hands clenched into fists. “Don’t you think we’ve fucking noticed?!”

“Bitters,” Kimball says, her voice strained. “I understand-“

“Then you should understand that we can’t do that.” Bitters huffs and crosses his arms. “We didn’t follow the fucking program, you know. We just… did what he told us to. And you can’t find his strategies in a book. He made them, and the other Captains won’t have a fucking clue of-“

“Enough,” Kimball cuts him off sharply. She breathes in, and they both lift their heads when they notice the Captains’ arrival.

“So what’s going on here?” Tucker asks while Simmons remains quiet.

Kimball may have been on her way to answer, but Bitters is too fast and cuts her off. He waves his hand angrily at her helmet. “She wants to split up our team.”

“Bitters, Gold Team is lacking a Captain. You can’t-“

“We _have_ a Captain,” he snarled, voice dripping with anger and desperation and grief. “He just isn’t here.” The last words are hushed and cold and they barely make it through his gritted teeth.

Simmons can hear Kimball breathe in deeply. Tucker is shifting his feet but Simmons keeps staring at Bitters.

“I can take them,” Simmons’ mouth says. “All of them.”

“We don’t want you,” Bitters snarls, throwing the words out like a punch, and Simmons blinks.

There is a tense pause where none of them really want to face each other, and when someone finally speaks, it’s Tucker who rubs his neck while suggesting, “Can’t they just do their thing?” He shrugs, gesturing towards the Lieutenant. “Bitters helped Grif with the infiltration strategies, right?” When the soldier nods, Tucker goes on, “So let him run the show.”

“Tucker,” Kimball says, unable to hide her hesitation.

“Hey, you made us Captains when you found us. You can't do any worse here,” Tucker points out and his argument is so logical that Kimball goes along with it.

She nods. “Bitters, if you are willing, you will take over Gold Team’s infiltration lessons. When it comes to general training and information, you respond to Captain Simmons. Is this an agreement?”

Bitters only has one demand.

Simmons can hear the wetness in Kimball’s voice when she agrees to let Bitter’s team change name to Orange Team.

A few minutes later, when Simmons is trying to address his own squad, he sees out of the corner of his eye how Bitters straightens out his back as he faces Orange Team. Matthews is the first to give Bitters a salute, and Simmons sees how Bitters grips his weapon tighter and something inside Simmons’ chest panels gives out for a moment.

* * *

The third punch is more literal.

He has been seeing Vinter for a week now, and they have moved on to his senior year in high school. There is enough painful stuff in that year for the psychologist to investigate for the next couple of weeks, and Simmons makes sure to dwell on the details he has never spoken out loud before.

Simmons can’t say that his meeting with Vinter makes him happy, but it’s better than the lunch breaks where Donut asks him if he wants to come with him to visit the grave and the training sessions where he can see Bitters struggle with the leadership that the young soldier has only accepted out of pure stubbornness and loyalty.

He keeps an eye on Kai who has been surprisingly easy to keep out of trouble this week. No raids or nighttime meals gone wrong. Kai isn’t a soldier and has never been, and Simmons hasn’t figured out her talent yet (she is bound to have some. Right? Everyone has something they can do without fucking it up completely) and he is somewhat relieved when he learns that someone from the kitchen staff has taken pity on her and they are training her up to become a part of the personnel.

While Simmons might have trust issues with the food from the mess hall in the nearest future, he is pleased to see that Kai is keeping herself busy.

In fact, Kai is doing rather well. When Simmons asked her about her new job the other day, he even saw a faint smile on her lips. A real smile. The one that made her eyes sparkle a little bit, like a child reaching a playground ready to be conquered.

For some reason it did not please Simmons the way it should. His brain keeps reminding him of the fact that she is _his_ sister, and _he_ is gone, and she should be sad like Simmons is sad and she shouldn’t be smiling because there is no fucking reason to smile anymore. But Simmons kept his mouth shut and asked if she had learned any new recipes.

Now, however, he has become suspicious. Kai’s steps have become lighter and her hips are swinging when she walks. She has to be fucking someone. And Simmons has an idea of just who this person might be. So one afternoon he knocks on Tucker’s door, and his suspicion is almost confirmed it takes just a bit too long for Tucker to open the door, and when he finally shows up in the doorway, he is only wearing a towel around his waist.

Simmons does not waste time. “Are you fucking Kai?” Normally, he would have stuttered or at least blushed, but his mind is stuck on the fact that he has to make sure that Kai does not get pregnant, that this is the only purpose left for him, and he faces Tucker with a set jaw.

The Blue soldier pulls his head back in surprise and confusion. “What the fuck, dude?!”

“Are you fucking her?”

“Wha – No! Don’t get me wrong – Kai is a _fine_ lady, but been there, done that.” He looks down to see Simmons clenched hands, and exclaims, “Holy shit, relax. Her words! Why the fuck do you care? Shit, don’t tell me you fucking want to… I thought-“

Simmons widened his eyes, realizing what Tucker is hinting at, and he stammers, “What? No!”

“Then why the fuck are you interrupting my quality time?!”

“She’s been coming to you. I’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, to get drunk. And cry. Which she does a lot. And knock it off, dude – I know you found your own bottles.”

His words are on point, and Simmons shifts his feet. “So you aren’t…?”

“ _No_.” Tucker noticed how Simmons’ eyes travels to the towel he is wearing and the cyborg raises an eyebrow, which causes Tucker to explain, “Go ask her yourself. She’s off the table. Unless she wanna go threesome, bow-chicka-bow-wow, ‘cause I’m already occupied.”

And because life hates Simmons, it is in that fucking moment that Agent Washington decides to poke his head in from behind Tucker to find out what was going on.

Simmons sees his bare torso, and as his mind slowly puts two and two together, Simmons’ eyes jump from Tucker’s sheepish smile to Wash’ stunned expression.

It’s not because Simmons had anything against Tucker fucking Wash. He should even have seen that coming. So congratulations to them.

But it’s the fact that Tucker _can_ fuck Wash, that Wash _can_ fuck Tucker back, that they are both alive to fuck each other, that makes Simmons’ mind snap.

He thinks about Grif.

How he never fucked Grif, how he never had the chance to do so, how he may have had the chance to do so, how he never even kissed him, how should have done so, how he never even fucking told him –

Simmons’ metal hand connects with Tucker’s face and none of them sees it coming.

“What the _fuck_ , dude?!” Tucker exclaims, holding his now bloody nose.

Simmons sees Wash’s hand shot out to steady Tucker, but then he turns around before he can see more. He can still hear them, though.

“Tucker,” Wash says and Simmons can imagine him shaking his head, holding Tucker back.

“Was that his left hand? Jesus!”

Well, his left hand is made of metal, and he really should make a note to apologize to Tucker later, but at the moment Simmons is too busy being pissed. He makes sure to forcefully slam every door open as he walks down the hallway. He can feel the anger seep out of him with each angry motion, and instead he can feel despair growing.

To be honest, he prefers the anger.

But he knows that he has fucked up. By punching Tucker he has broken the façade he has struggled so hard to keep up, and if they find him unfit for duty, if Kimball tells him to step down… Simmons has always made a point out of loving his job, to succeed, to show everyone the best of his abilities, but now he is clinging on to his duties as if they were his lifeline. They probably are. He is running out of purposes to wake up in the morning.

Biting his lip, he considers his option. He could go back to apologize, but that would mean facing two half-naked Blues, and Simmons can already feel his sanity slipping like water through his fingers.

So he thinks of Vinter and how she promised her door would always been open for him. If he goes to see her immediately, then he would be showing his will to get better and then Kimball would have no reason to demote.

Oh, and seeing Vinter now may also mean that he could get better, but that is not really his priority.

But seeing Vinter it is, and Simmons stumbles his way to her office. The soldiers he passes send him strange looks, which is weird since his helmet. He is wearing his helmet, right? He reaches up with his right hand, and he realizes he is not wearing any armor at all.

Well, it should not be that weird. A lot of people have been walking around unarmed lately. It must be his cyborg parts that cause the sideway glances.

It’s not that late, not even dinner time, which means Vinter is probably still there, and Simmons is desperate enough to open the door immediately after knocking on the door.

He really should have waited for a reply.

Simmons realizes that Kai’s way of opening up to people is by spreading her legs when he sees her and their psychologist naked on the couch – the couch he had been sitting on the day before.

As they both look up at him surprise, Kai with a moan she accidently lets out, Simmons can feel the remains of his sanity fade away.

“That’s it,” he declares to no one in particular, “I’m going to shoot myself.”

And he turns around on his heel, marching towards the armory because for once he is not carrying any weapons. Or maybe he is on his way to his room to cry his eyes out. He hasn’t decided yet. But crying his eyes seems like a good option, since he feels like scooping them out with a spoon in order to get rid of the image they have just witnessed. He may even ask for Sarge to delete parts of his memory. Again. Maybe this time Sarge will actually do it.

He does not reach the armory nor his room before someone calls out behind him: “Wait the fuck up, you jerk!”

It takes some seconds before he realizes the yell is directed at him.

He turns around and sees Kai running towards him, only wearing underpants and her bra. Well, at least she did put on some clothes before coming after him. Still, he has to over her up before one of the younger soldiers sees her.

“Kai, put some clothes on!”

She stops in front of him, panting, and she crosses her arms. “There’re no rules about that!”

“It’s not a rule! It’s a norm! A socially accepted norm!”

“Made by men! Stop the oppression!”

Simmons breathes out through his nose. “Kai,” he says, slowly, and hopes it’s enough.

Kai huffs, hugging herself tighter. “It’s your own fault, you dick. I had to come after you.” She lifts her hand to brush some stray hairs away from her still flushed face. “You can’t just say shit like that, jerkhead!”

“What did I say?” Simmons exclaims in confusion and the feeling only grows stronger when Kai lunches forward to punch his chest. “Ow! What the fuck?!”

“You can’t shoot yourself! That’s wrong! And selfish! And messy, and I hate blood.” It is first now that he notices how glassy her eyes are. “And you can’t die now! Big Bro wouldn’t want that. He’d want you to grow old and gross, and first then you can die from being old and gross.” Kai looks very young now, with the way her lower lip is trembling and her eyes brim with tears. “So I have to look after you. ‘cause that’s what he’d wanted.”

Simmons blinks. Breathes in. Blinks again. “You… you’re looking after me?”

“Yeah!” Kai nods enthusiastically while tears are running down her cheeks. “You were all creepy, just staring at walls all the day. So I started acting up, so you’d come scold me. Same thing worked with Dex.”

Simmons gulps painfully before telling her, “I wasn’t going to kill myself, Kai. I… I don’t know why I said that. It was stupid.”

All the anger has left him now. Seeing Kai’s teared up expression is killing whatever life is left inside his chest, and the worst part of it all is that Simmons knows he had not found the idea stupid. That a few weeks ago, he had been sitting with the gun in his hands and…

That was stupid. Simmons looks at Kai’s tears and decides that he had been stupid for thinking that way.

“Yeah, it was,” Kai sniffs. “And you can’t be freaking out about me and Cat ‘cause that’d be homophobic and I know you wanted to fuck my brother, so then you’d have something against girls and that’s just sexist, you fuck!”

“I don’t have anything against it. I mean, since it’s your therapist it would be considered a highly unhealthy relationship and probably illegal in some places, but…” Well, it sounds pretty bad when he says it out loud. Simmons rubs the back of his neck. “At least you can’t you can’t get pregnant.”

“Big Bro always said I should stick with the girls.” Kai is smiling at him, and Simmons wonders in how many ways these therapy sessions have helped her. “Also, your hand is being weird and it’s creeping me out.”

Simmons looks down to see his left hand glitching and twitching, and there are red spots of dried blood on his metal fingers. He has not inspected his cyborg part since before they attack, and it is showing. The punch was probably just the law straw before some of the gears gave up.

He’s a mess. Literally speaking. “Yeah… I should get that checked out.”

“Nothing more dangerous than a twitching hand in bed,” Kai agrees. She is quiet for a moment, looking at her own bare feet before raising her head, “You okay?”

“Nope,” Simmons answers honestly. “You?”

“Nope,” she says, almost proudly. “But Cat says that’s alright. She also says you’re a wreck and shouldn’t be left alone with loaded weapons. So I unloaded your weapons when I broke into your room.”

“You broke into my room?”

Kai nods carelessly, like this is old news. “Also borrowed that cyborg oil thing in your night table. You might not want it back, though.”

Well, that is one mystery solved. Simmons grimaces when a part of his hand explodes in sparks. As he cradles it against his chest, he realizes they have gained a crowd, and too many visor are turned towards Kai’s bare skin.

“You better go to your room, Kai, to put on some clothes.”

“Nah-ah, my session first ends in twenty minutes.”

“Oh god.” Simmons puts a hand on his forehead. “Please tell me you actually receive some therapy there.”

“Of course. Last hour is just physical.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Kai wipes her eyes and tilts her head. “So don’t be stupid. ‘cause I can’t even make brownies yet, and I can’t shoot, and I can’t hit anything. But I can hit _on_ something, but that doesn’t count. And someone needs to take of the Hargrove dick.”

“Yeah,” Simmons says. “Yeah.”

“Good. 18 minutes left – I bet we can do at least two rounds before –“

“Kai, I really don’t need the details.”

She grins at him, tear tracks dried on her cheeks, and then she turns around to head back to the office with the couch that Simmons will never touch again. On her way out of the hall, she passes Donut who cheerfully greets her, “Oh, hey, Kai. That color looks good on you.”

Luckily for Donut, he is the one person who is allowed to praise Kai’s underwear, which is why Simmons does not find his presence alarming. Well, that is until the notices the orange flowers in Donut’s hands.

Just by the sight of it, Simmons prepares to flee. Unfortunately for him, Donut is too fast and catches up with him as Simmons tries to disappear down the hallway. “Hey, Simmons.”

“Hey, Donut,” he answers very dully, hoping Donut will sense his mood and stay quiet.

Donut, of course, fails to do so.

“I’m on my way to visit the grave. It’s time the flowers got replaced. Do you want to come with me?”

“I have to go see Sarge,” Simmons answers quickly. “I need to get my hand fixed.”

The pink soldier looks down at the twitching limb. “Yeah, that looks bad. I’m sure Sarge knows how to do the hand stuff. I know it worked out for Lopez the last time his limb turned stiff. All he needed was some oil. And some news gears.”

“Sure.”

“Well, it’s good to know you are taking care of yourself,” Donut says, and he is smiling at him, trying so hard to make it look real, and Simmons is too tired to respond to it. “We can always visit the grave tomorrow, if you find the time.”

Not like the place is going anywhere, Simmons thinks bitterly, and he knows that he will absolutely not find the time to so tomorrow. Not the day after, either, or the day after that.

So he does not answer Donut, but instead quickens his pace as he rounds a corner to head towards the armory. Donut slow down until he is standing in the middle of the hallway, and Simmons looks over his shoulder to see the younger soldier wave half-heartedly at him before Simmons escapes through the door.

* * *

Sarge has been spending a lot of time in the armory lately. His leg is still troubling him, but he hides it well, and Simmons finds him in the armory with his shotgun in his hands. Sarge pauses from cleaning it, and instead places the cyborg kit in his lap when Simmons asks for help.

Simmons cannot help but stutter when Sarge mentions the bloodstains. “I, uh, I, well, I punched a Blue.”

Sarge snorts in amusement. “Heh, you’re making me proud, son.”

He watches Sarge put a screwdriver in the old bullet wound in the middle of his hand, and he tries his best to keep the memories away. “I…” Simmons’ voice is very strained and he has to sigh before continuing, “I highly doubt that, sir.”

Sarge pats him on the back, a bit too much force in the motion, and proceeds to twist screwdriver. “You’re doing fine.”

“About that.” Simmons looks down, clenching and unclenching his human hand. “That thing about cyborgs and memory deletion?”

“Already told you,” Sarge replies sharply, “Used all those memory storage thingies on Lopez. ‘fraid you are stuck with the boring, sticky, grey brain humans are equipped with. Not even red, like the disgusting inner organs we had to get rid of. Lucky for you – I hear those memory chips are pretty unreliable.”

That earned a snicker (if you could call it that) from Lopez who was stacking up boxes in the corner of the room. “Aunque sólo sea eso era cierto. No me importaría que olvidar todo. Oltra vez. He perdido esa función después de la primera vez.” [If only that was true. I would not mind forgetting you all. Again. I lost that function after the first time.]

Simmons has expected that answer. He closes his eyes and breathes out in the lightest tone possible, “No self-destruction button either, I guess?”

He tries to make it sound like a snicker, like a half-hearted joke, but Sarge immediately puts down his tool. “Son,” he begins, his voice gruff but wary. “Now why would you do that? That would ruin the mission entirely.”

“The mission, sir?”

“We both know I wanted to put an end to the dirtbag. Even tried a couple of times. Which is what makes his death unworthy. I had already called dibs, saved some shells for the future. So the way I see it, we have to make things right. We have to find the Hargrove-fella and give him a self-destruction button. Which we will then proceed to push for him. So tell me – is this the mission you will back down from?”

After Sarge finishes his speech, Simmons is very quiet. He turns over his metal hand and watches the sparks that appear from it. “No, sir,” he answers him and closes his fist.

* * *

Simmons decides to continue therapy. He also decides that he can never touch Vinter’s couch again.

So he goes to Doctor Grey. He could have chosen Doc, of course, but at least Grey is a crazy genius while Doc is literally fifty percent maniac.

He has one session with Grey. Things go well. She avoids the subject and lets him talk about his father. They spend two hours like this, and that is when Simmons realized he is done for the day. “So I guess that’s why I left. End of that story. Or, wait, I’m sure there’s more to talk about! Like, like…” His eyes dart around as he tries to find another trauma to discuss. Unfortunately, his eyes fall on the very red clothing that is stuck underneath one of the legs of Grey’s chair. “Wait, is that Sarge’s boxers?”

To Simmons’ defense, it is only fair to point out that he was stuck with laundry duty before Donut moved in, and that is why Simmons knows that all Sarge’s underwear matches his armor color. Not that it would surprise anyone.

When Grey fails to come up with an answer, Simmons puts two and two together, and he wonders if this is what war does. Spreads death. And love. Like a damn disease.

He thanks Doctor Grey for her time, very politely, and immediately heads for Vinter’s office. He demands to get his own chair in the office in order to avoid the couch, and Vinter fetches one for him. It even has a maroon pillow. He appreciates the gesture.

Because as strange as it is, he has come to enjoy his talks with her. He isn’t sure if it is the way she can come up with the weirdest questions in order to dig deeper, or the way she can stay quiet for an entire hour as he rambles.

Either way, he realizes just how well her sessions are working the day she manages to make him say _his_ name without choking up.

They have been talking about is father when Vinter asks, “If you could bring one person here to punch them, would it be your father?” She has her pen in her hand, ready to take notes.

Simmons does not even take the time to think about his answer. It just spills out from his mouth. “No. It would be Grif, of course. For dying. It’s not… He can’t just do that. Leave me behind. Or, well, no. I would punch Hargrove. No, I wouldn’t do that. I would kill him, and I’m going to kill him, because it’s his fault that Grif-“

When he realizes what he has done, Simmons falls silent. It’s like all the energy has been drained for him. He stares at his hands that are placed in his lap and doesn’t lift his head until Vinter quietly tells him that he is doing fine and that their session is over.

There’s a buzzing in his head, like a pack of flies has moved in inside his brain, and he feels very, very tired. Numb, almost. After his sessions with Vinter it is dinner time, and his feet automatically move him to the mess hall.

He does not feel like eating, though. He picks up a tray, realizes he is probably going to throw up whatever he tries to eat, and so he brings an empty tray to his table. He looks down into it, and sees his shattered reflection in the steel surface.

At some point Caboose shows up. He sits down abruptly in front of Simmons, and his tray pushes against Simmons’ as he places it on the table.

It seems like the Blue soldier recognizes Simmons’ hunched over position as a sad one because he asks, “Did they run out of pudding before you came here? That happened to me once. It made me sad, too.”

Simmons does not look up from the tray, and Caboose continues, “Not the bad kind of sad where I have to go see the scary doctor. She’s nice, though. I like her. I have to see her when I get _really_ sad. That’s when I think about Church.”

He pauses, as if just mentioning the name saddens him, which is probably the case. Simmons wonders where the hell Tucker and Wash are, and how long it will take for them to show up and deal with Caboose. Because he really should not be Simmons’ problem.

 Finally, Caboose seems to be able to speak again. Unfortunately. “Agent Washington says it’s okay to be sad. He also says I shouldn’t be too sad, because Church is having a good time. He says he’s in a better place. But he won’t say where that place is. That made me mad. And then sad.”

Simmons is not looking up from the table. He does not dare to.

“I hope Grif is with him.”

Simmons stops breathing. Caboose doesn’t realize what he has done and goes on, “Because Church likes having someone to yell at. And a better place must have all the things they like. So there will be a lot of napping spots for Grif. Agent Washington says they are happy now. I want Church to be happy. But I miss him.”

When Simmons finally raises his head, he is looking directly into Caboose’s glassy eyes. “I bet you miss Grif too. Have you tried asking him to come back? I keep telling Church he is being mean, but he never shows up on my shoulder anymore.” Caboose lets out a gasp, revealing that an idea has come to him. “Maybe you can tell Grif to come home and take Church with him!”

Simmons begins to cry. It’s like he is finally able to take a deep breath, and when he tries to exhale, the only thing that leaves his throat is sobs. His shoulders are shaking, his nose is running, and he is crying fat, shameful tears, and there is no way that Simmons can stop himself now.

Caboose nods and tells him comfortingly, “The scary doctor says it’s okay to cry.”

At that point, Simmons lets out a half-choked wail and presses his hands against his face.

The sight must have been as pathetic as it feels, because a minute later Caboose seems to be backtracking. “That’s – that’s a loooot of tears,” he says, somewhat terrified and impressed, like he has accidently turned on the water in the sink and now is about to flood the house.

“Holy shit, Caboose! I think you broke him.” Tucker finally shows up. Great. Just in time to witness Simmons’ total meltdown.

“Nah, he is just sad he does not have his pudding.” Caboose reaches out and pats Simmons’ shoulder. He is strong enough to make it hurt, but Simmons fails to notice the pain. “That’s okay. He can have mine,” Caboose tells Tucker and Simmons sobs harder.

* * *

Simmons has a dream that night. Many of the details are fuzzy, but the dialogue is still echoing inside his brain when he wakes up.

_“Hey, Simmons!”_

_“Grif? What the fuck are you doing over here?! You told Sarge you would be spying on the Blues.”_

_“I am.”_

_“You’re lying in the shade. You can’t see shit from here.”_

_“I don’t have to. I am ninety-nine percent sure the Blues are currently coming up with diabolical plans. And I am hundred percent sure that Sarge will agree on my theory.”_

_“Yeah, then what about that one percent where they are not scheming?”_

_“Probably burying one of their own members.”_

_“While the statistics may be on your side, that’s still not an excuse to go napping.”_

_“You know me well enough to know that I don’t need an excuse. Hey, come join me.”_

_“Wha- No! I’m on duty!”_

_“Yeah, and according to your daily schedule, now is the time where you check up on whether I am doing my duties or not. Which I never do. So come closer, Simmons, and investigate. Take notes. You might learn something.”_

_“Grif, you are not making me take a nap.”_

_“You don’t have to. Just stay in the shade, sit down, relax and turn off that calculator I know you have running in the back of your brain. It’ll do you good. I’m sure Sarge will agree.”_

_“Just how will Sarge think this is a good idea?”_

_“’cause if you get too stressed, you turn Blue. No point denying it, Simmons, we’ve all seen your ugly side.”_

_“That only happened once.”_

_“Yeah, that’s ‘cause I’m keeping an eye on you. There you go. Now stop being so tense – I’m not fucking torturing you. I can even accept if you skip the nap and go straight to doing nothing in the shade. That’s the best part.”_

_“You’re terrible.”_

_“Ouch, my feelings, Simmons. And here I had prepared myself for the fat-joke that never came. I even brought Oreos, just to make the joke ironic.”_

_“That’s not how irony work, you dumbass.”_

_“Really? Well, then it doesn’t matter if I eat my Oreos right now. What a shame.”_

_“You’re an idiot.”_

_“Really? If I’m that stupid, then how did I manage to convince you to chill in the shade?”_

_“You’re being a bad influence.”_

_“Yeah? Well, then you’re the idiot for letting me influence you.”_

Simmons stares at the ceiling. His human eye is still sore from the catastrophic breakdown in the mess hall, and he has come to the point where he thinks he may have run out of tears.

He breathes in heavily and decides that he will not spend another night wide awake in bed. While he is sure he will get no more sleep tonight, he decides to put on clothes, not his armor, and walk down the darkened halls.

The cyborg is not sure where he is going, but he is just filled with the feeling that he is supposed to be somewhere else.

At some point he walks past the mess hall, and when he realized someone has turned the lights on, he walks backwards until he is in front of the door again. Perhaps Kai has begun another raid. Perhaps she is cooking.

Simmons steps inside, and he realizes that not the entire room is lit. Only a few of the lamps have been turned on, and the light is dimmed – the light bulbs are in bad shape and blinks every ten seconds. Carolina sits alone, a glass in her hand, and Simmons knows it’s alcohol before he even gets there.

He sits down in front of her, and she does not ask him why he is there because she already knows why, and he doesn’t ask her why she is there, because they are both here due to the same reason.

She swirls her glass before she raises her head. “Do you fear what will happen when we find Hargrove? What will happen _after_ we find him?”

“We’re going to kill him. I mean, that’s the plan.”

Simmons wishes he could say that there is fire in Carolina’s eyes, but that description does not exactly fit. It’s more like a single flame, stretching towards the sky just before it dies down. “And when he is dead? What do we do then?” Her voice is bitter, and so are her thoughts, and Simmons knows exactly what she is talking about.

And he does not know what to answer.

Carolina looks down at her drink again, as if she can find the answer at the bottom of the glass.

The question has been haunting him ever since he heard the flat-line from the heart monitor. Why are they here? Why are they still here? What is their reason to be here?

So far Simmons knows he is here because Hargrove needs to die. Because his victims need to be avenged. And when Hargrove is dead… Then what is their purpose to be here?

Carolina’s glass is empty by the time Simmons has found out what to say. “I think we are here,” he says slowly. “Because they’d want us to be. Right?”

That earns him something that sounds like a mix between a snort and a sob. “That does not make it easier.”

“No,” Simmons agrees with a sigh. “It doesn’t.”

They sit there for a while, reflecting on their own grief.

When Carolina speaks again, she surprises him. “You took up Kimball’s offer of therapy?”

Simmons rubs his neck, unsure if he should feel ashamed. “Yeah,” he admits, slowly, and begins to pick some nonexistence dirt from under his nails.

“Does it work?”

Simmons allows himself to consider his answer. He thinks about guns and alcohol and overdoses of aspirin and the hours he spent staring at the walls and the way Kai would try to start a fight with anyone who tried to comfort her. He thinks about memory deletion and how he wanted to blow his own brain out in order to get rid of the memories and the pain.

Simmons thinks about his dream, and he realizes that he no longer wants to forget. “Yeah,” he tells her. “I think so. Just… don’t touch the couch.”

Carolina raises an eyebrow and the confusion softens her expression. Simmons decides that it is better if she does not know. At least now she has been warned, which takes away her right to complain later.

For a while they just sit there, acknowledging each other’s presence.

“You know,” Carolina says to break the silence. “If you get to Hargrove first, save a piece for me.”

Simmons allows himself to grin just a tiny bit. “Will do.”

“If it’s the other way around, I’ll save some for you too,” Carolina promises him, and knowing the Freelancer, that’s a big promise.

Simmons believes her, though.

He stares at the empty glass in front of him, and at some point the realization hits him. He knows where he’s going. Too bad he has forgotten the way.

“I, uh, I actually need some directions.”

Carolina’s expression reveals that she thought herself as the last person anyone would ask for guidance at the moment, but when Simmons explains himself, she breathes out and tells him what he needs to know.

When Simmons leaves the mess hall and turns left when he stands in the doorway, she even calls after him, “Wrong way.”

“I have to fetch something,” he calls over his shoulder and with long steps, he makes his way to Bitters’ quarters.

The Lieutenant does not look happy to see him. But it is also four in the morning. He scowls until Simmons tells him, “I need something.”

* * *

He finds the spot just as the sun rises. Even with Carolina’s directions, Simmons managed to get lost twice before he is able to spot the orange flowers. On his way he passes the memorials that have been raised for Doyle and Church due to the lack of bodies.

Not that Chorus doesn’t have enough graves. Simmons passes an endless number of stones before he reaches his destination, and he wonders just how deep scars the war has left behind.

Donut has kept his promise. None of the flowers are withered, and the pink soldier has arranged them so it looks like the stone is an island surrounded by orange waves. The sea split by the middle, allowing a path leading to the front of the stone so Simmons can kneel down and run a thumb across the letters.

The memories of the funeral are few, but he can still see Kai’s shaking shoulder and he can still hear the sound of Donut’s wailing, and when Simmons closes his eyes, he is stuck with the image of the white casket being lowered into the ground, until they pour dark dirt on it, shovel after shovelful, and finally there is only blackness.

Simmons takes a shaky breath, opens his eyes and faces the name: _Dexter Grif_

“I…” Simmons begins and runs out of words immediately. He swallows the lumps in his throat, awkwardly holds up the pack of Oreos that Bitters agreed to give him, and places box against the gravestone. The package of snack looks out of place, but he knows that Grif would have hated more flowers. Snacks were something that Grif would always accept, no matter what mood affected him.

It looks silly and it feels silly, but it also feels right, and the tightness within his mechanical lungs loosens slightly.

Simmons blinks away tears and suddenly feels so very tried. As if his body first now realizes how he has not reached the recommended eight hours, barely even four, in the last two months.

His body is heavy, not just the mechanical side, and when his knees turn weak, he slowly sinks to the ground. Turning around, he gently moves the box of Oreos so he can lean against the stone as well. He lets his head fall backwards, letting it rest against the smooth surface.

“You suck,” he breathes out, and when he thinks about the dream and its tree in the shade, his eyes begin to sting.

He sits there until the exhaustion catches up with him, and when Donut turns up later to check on the flowers, Simmons is still sleeping in the shade.

* * *

Kai is wearing Grif’s dog tags. They swing against her throat when she hugs Simmons goodbye. She feels oddly frail, but that is probably because he is wearing full body armor while she still has flour in her face from her work in the kitchen.

Simmons, who is still struggling with personal space when it comes to girls, returns the hug stiffly and even pats her back.

“Kill the shit out of him,” Kai tells him, and Simmons is so damn grateful that she is staying behind because he knows that Grif would have taken the effort to kick Simmons’ ass had he known he would be dragging her along.

Carolina is yelling out orders as soldiers are loading the ship, and there is so much energy in her voice at the moment that it is hard to remember how she has been like a ghost the past two months. But the energy is spreading, a cloud of excitement is filling the base, and everyone is ready.

They have the location. We’ve fucking found him, as Tucker had put it, and then Donut had enthusiastically added that they had nailed him.                                                                                                      

So they are going to find Hargrove. And they are going to kill him. And Simmons is ready.

After all, that’s the reason why he is here. Right?

Simmons thinks about Carolina’s question.

To be honest, it still keeps him up at night. He doubts if there is a God up there, despite all the logical facts going against his fate, because if that’s the case and that God really has a plan for them all, then why did he let all this happen? But he also hopes that there is Heaven so Grif can find his spot in the shade, and so that he can be there to welcome Simmons if things go wrong. He wonders if he did things right, or if he fucked up. He wonders if there’s a purpose behind all this. He wonders why they are here. And why Grif can’t be here to bicker with him about all these questions.

But Simmons turns his head. He sees Donut who is still trying to send them all true smiles in the hope that it is contagious. He sees Sarge walking to the ship with a slight limp, even when he tries his hardest to hide it. He sees Kai letting Vinter wipe away her tears. He sees Bitters marching into the ship, rifle across his back. He sees Lopez picking up a machine gun, and the Blues are huddling together, patting shoulders. He sees Carolina giving him a nod.

Grif always left behind messes that Simmons had to take care of. Let it be laundry, empty soda cans, a rotten package of snack cakes.

And Simmons always fixes the mess, simply because he cannot help himself. Maybe this time it takes a little longer to patch up all the shattered parts, but Simmons is getting there. At least he hopes so.

To be honest, the job sucks. But it’s Simmons’ job. And he really shouldn’t be surprised that Grif had left behind a bunch of messes, including Simmons himself.

Simmons breathes in, and searches his pockets to make sure he has the old pack of cigarettes with him. Then he grips his weapon tighter and marches towards the ship.

And for some reason, Simmons cannot help but let out a whisper that nobody in the room seems to hear.

“Shotgun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT:  
> The very talented Creatrixanimi on tumblr have made some awesome illustrations for the last two chapters which you can see here:  
> http://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/160363814552/riathedreamer-is-the-queen-of-grimmons-angst  
> They have a lot of absolutely amazing RvB art so check it out while you're there!
> 
> Longest epilogue ever. Of all time. What is this?! I don’t even know anymore. It just kinda wrote itself.  
> I don’t know how you guys feel about an epilogue. But, well, I guess it kinda mended my own heart. Simmons’ too. Hopefully some of yours. And I felt so bad about letting so many words (freaking ten thousand. Seriously. What the fuck have I done?!) rot in my documents.  
> And I apologize for this epilogue coming up so late (it only took a month to write the 13 chapters –it took two to write a damn epilogue) but again – it wasn’t my original plan. But this is what my brain comes up with when I’m supposed to sleep and then I wrote it down in my notebook and… Well, I hope you enjoyed it.  
> Also apologies for bringing in a minor OC. Not my first choice, but I needed a therapist for Kai and I had already hooked Grey up with Sarge, and I did not really feel for Doc – for various reason. Sorry, Doc. I hope this can be forgiven.  
> Also, new Grimmons story is soon coming up. I am so excited for this one, and I think you guys will love it too. It will hopefully come out within a month. Hope to see some of you guys there.  
> And thank you so much for all the kudos. You guys rock!

**Author's Note:**

> General info note: English is not my native language, and I apologize for the grammar mistakes that I didn’t catch. Also, I am horrible at spotting typos, so please forgive me.
> 
> Also; wanna see my random RvB doodles and musings, as well as very small grimmons ficlets and my weird thoughts in general? I’m riathedreamer on tumblr. More info on my AO3 profile.


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